


Strange and Unearthly Thing

by umbrafix



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Jane Eyre Fusion, Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst, Crossover, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-06-03 15:57:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 72,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6616618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrafix/pseuds/umbrafix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An Endeavour and Jane Eyre remix, in which Morse is not quite Jane Eyre, and Thursday is not quite Mr Rochester. Or: a regency tale in which Thursday hires Morse as a tutor for his children.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Home

**Author's Note:**

> You do not need to know the story of Jane Eyre to read this (all you need to know is that it is set in the early 1800’s). Please note I’m taking enormous liberties in making same sex relationships an accepted and okay thing of the time. 
> 
> If you really don't want to wade through young!Morse/backstory, then you can skip straight to chapter 4 for the introduction of Thursday. That may end up being confusing if you don't know the story of Jane Eyre though.
> 
> Disclaimer: Jane Eyre is an excellent work by Charlotte Bronte, and though I have used many of the settings and scenes from it, these are not my own. Likewise the characters and their backstory from Endeavour.

His mother died when he was very young. Endeavour didn’t remember much of her, although the mere thought of her always brought a sensation of warmth and the faintest smell of roses. Still, her biggest impact upon his life was her absence.

 

She wasn’t there when his father, swayed by grief, remarried. Gwen soon proved a cold, hard-hearted woman who looked at Endeavour with scorn and irritation. His mother also wasn’t there to guide Endeavour’s father as he lost much of their money to bad investments and gambling, nor when he took to secluding himself in his study.

 

Changes kept coming, the family gradually altering beyond recognition. The new child received much of the family’s attention when she was born, and Endeavour could never have begrudged her that. Joyce was a sweet girl, quiet but bright, and her smiles for him easily became one of the most precious parts of his days.

 

But when Joyce was perhaps five, and he almost nine, his stepmother’s face became ever more pinched as she looked at him. Soon he was rarely allowed to join the others in the dining room or on excursions, in case he was disruptive. His portions grew smaller, for he was told that money was tight and he was taking food away from Joyce. His manners were found lacking on every occasion, and there was always something that he was doing wrong in his stepmother’s eyes.

 

Endeavour’s father never stirred himself on Endeavour’s behalf. Indeed, Endeavour sometimes wondered if his father remembered he existed at all, except to occasionally look on in disappointment.

 

So Endeavour found refuge in books, and in the library. His favourite thing to do of an afternoon was to secret himself behind the curtains in a window seat, and read and daydream for hours. He liked books about nature, geography, and history. Much of what he learned was self-taught, because no school master had been engaged on his behalf and Joyce was taught by her nursemaid.

 

It would not have been such a bad life, reading his books, treasuring every moment of solitude, but that it was frequently interrupted by his stepmother’s scolding.

 

The worst to date came when his stepmother found him swinging Joyce around in the hallway – still light enough though she was almost seven. It was his little sister’s favourite game, and she giggled wildly as he swooped and spun her, hands clutched tight under her arms.

 

“ _Endeavour Morse!_ ”

 

The smile froze on his face. His heart almost stopped, and then set to racing at an ungodly pace. Without turning around, he gently lowered Joyce to the ground, and quietly indicated she should leave.

 

She peered around him in confusion. “Mama?”

 

“Go on, now,” he whispered, and guided her to turn with a hand on her shoulder. She obeyed, eyes innocent and clear.

 

His mouth had gone entirely dry with fear by the time she rounded the corner.

 

“What have you got to say for yourself?” The words were practically hissed, and he slowly turned to see the livid face of his stepmother bearing down upon him.

 

“We were just playing,” he said, forcing his voice calm and reasonable. It probably wouldn’t do any good, but then he’d found in the past that _not_ speaking irritated her just as severely.

 

“Playing! She might have been injured!” His stepmother glared at him, her mouth a thin, hard line. “You are a _wicked_ boy!”

 

He stamped down a hot flash of anger at the injustice of the accusation. “I did nothing wrong. We just-“

 

“Do not attempt to blame my daughter for your mistakes!  _She_  is always ladylike and gentle.  _You_  are attempting to corrupt her!” Morse thought rather uncharitably of Joyce’s habit of leaving worms in his bed, and opened his mouth. “Enough,” his stepmother snapped before he could say anything. Her foot tapped a hard beat against the ground for a moment. “You shall have to be punished!”

 

Endeavour eyed her warily. It was of course his father’s duty to discipline him, but his father hadn’t taken an interest in him for more years than Endeavour could remember. His stepmother ran the household with an iron fist, and was the ultimate authority.

 

His trepidation was justified. Gripping his ear between thumb and forefinger and twisting, she dragged him upstairs. He bit his lip, eyes watering, and tried not to cry out at the pain.

 

It got worse from there.

 

There was an old cupboard in one of the guest rooms, full of mothballs and bad smells. He and Joyce left it alone even when they played hide and seek. It made strange, creaking noises whenever they were in the room, and some childish part of his brain thought it might be haunted.

 

Now he was briefly handed off to a servant while his stepmother unlocked it, and then brusquely thrust inside. It was dark, very dark, when she shut the door again, and the grinding sound of the key turning was shockingly loud against the background of his own rapid breathing.

 

“He’s not to be let out for three hours,” he heard through the door. “And no supper tonight.” The servant muttered an acknowledgment, and then Endeavour heard the door to the room shut as they left.

 

“Hello?” he croaked, and his voice sounded too loud in the enclosed space. He felt around the cupboard with his hands, mapping out the inner dimensions. It was shallow, and pressed up against the back of the cupboard he couldn’t straighten his arms in front of himself. At head height was a rail which he knocked his head against once, twice, and he found he couldn’t reach the top of the cupboard. Otherwise it was all solid wood, with nothing but a thin crack of light showing between the cupboard doors. It was almost better to shut his eyes, so that he didn’t have the constant reminder of where he was.

 

There was a funny, rotten smell, and his feet bumped against something when he moved them. What was in there with him? His breathing sped up, and he made an effort to slow it. Holding himself upright, and very still, he tried to imagine he was in his own room. “One times nine is nine, two times nine is eighteen, three times…

 

“Henry VIII had six wives. Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, Anne of Cleves, Kathryn Howard and Katherine Parr. After Henry VIII came Queen Mary I, who…”

 

At some point, long after his voice had turned hoarse, light headedness turned into dizziness. There had been no breakfast for him that morning, and only slim pickings at lunch. Standing for hours in a darkened cupboard was not how Endeavour would have chosen to spend his afternoon.

 

He tentatively lowered himself to the floor of the cupboard, feeling dust and grit under his fingers. It was barely wide enough for him to sit with his legs huddled up to him. Dust clouded in his face as his movement disturbed it; he sneezed, and sneezed again. He thought he felt a spider or two as well, and there was a lump of  _something_  off to one side which he twisted himself so as not to touch.

 

Think of something else, he told himself, but he was cold, and scared, and deep in his gut an anxious coil of hatred for his stepmother tightened every time he tried to direct his mind elsewhere.

 

Eventually each creak in the enclosed space stopped making him jump, and in place of the alertness came a creeping lethargy which tugged him under.

 

\-------------

 

“Come on, now, wake up!”

 

Endeavour dragged heavy eyes open to find the manservant leaning over him. Richard was one of the friendlier faces around the manor, but he had little time for laziness. “Sorry,” Endeavour muttered, and found his throat sore and stubborn. “I didn’t mean to over-sleep.”

 

Richard’s face softened. “Ah, young master, you’ve not slept too long. You’ve been ill. The doctor’s here to see you.”

 

Endeavour turned his head where the manservant indicated, and found the family apothecary, Mr Lloyd, standing on the other side of his bed.

 

He tried to lift his head, and found himself shamefully weak. Long strands of his matted dark red hair fell in his eyes, and he blinked them away.

 

“I heard you had quite a turn yesterday. Let’s have a look at you then?”

 

After a cursory examination, the apothecary sent Richard out of the room and sat back in his chair. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with you but exhaustion and… well, nothing that a few good meals won’t fix.”

 

Endeavour nodded, staring fixedly down at the blankets.

 

“Can you tell me what happened yesterday?” Mr Lloyd asked kindly. Morse shrugged. “All I know is that you were found unconscious.”

 

Endeavour’s lips moved wordlessly for a moment. “I was in the cupboard,” he said eventually.

 

“In the cupboard? What were you doing in there? Playing hide and seek?”

 

“No.” His pride was stung enough that he added, “My stepmother locked me in there, after she found me playing with Joyce.”

 

“Locked you in the cupboard?” The apothecary sounded a little surprised, but not as moved by the unfairness of it as Endeavour secretly hoped he might have been.

 

“Yes.” Endeavour pressed his lips firmly together, and considered Mr Lloyd carefully. The apothecary had always been kind to him, on previous visits, and sometimes executed sly wit at his stepmother’s expense. “She frequently believes that I need to be punished,” he said finally, cautiously.

 

“And do you?”

 

Endeavour hesitated. “I don’t believe either of our opinion’s to be unbiased on that.” He saw the apothecary’s lip twitch at his phrasing. “I… She says that…” Endeavour trailed off and shook his head.

 

“Yes?” Mr Lloyd said encouragingly. The room was silent for a moment aside from the crack of logs in the fireplace. The apothecary’s voice, when he spoke again, was akin to someone coaxing a wild animal. “I might be able to help.”

 

It took a moment for Endeavour to realise that the responding pain in his chest was not truly physical, and another for him to summon words. “She says that I’m worthless, and don’t deserve to live here,” he whispered. He had to stop for a moment, the next thing almost too horrible to say out loud. “And… and that it’s lucky my mother is dead so that she doesn’t ever have to see me.”

 

He swallowed hard around a lump in his throat, and immediately regretted speaking. However kind, how could Mr Lloyd help but scorn him when he knew that Endeavour’s own family despised him?

 

“I see.” Mr Lloyd appeared deep in thought for a moment. “Master Morse,” he began slowly, “have you ever thought about going to school?”

 

It wasn’t the reply Endeavour had expected.

 

“To school?” The idea resonated through him, and he was quick enough to see it as the solution it was. “I should like that!” he said, and his words tumbled over each other with sudden eagerness.

 

“Mmm, I’ll have a word with Mrs Morse. Rest, now.”

 

\-------------

 

Some weeks later, Endeavour was summoned to the study where he found his stepmother speaking with a strange gentleman. He was finely dressed, very tall, and had the most severe face Endeavour had ever seen.

 

“This is the boy?” the man asked, with a sharp look at Endeavour.

 

“Indeed. Mr Brocklehurst, this is Endeavour Morse. He is ten years of age.”

 

The man pointed at the ground in front of him, and Endeavour crossed to stand there, having to crane his head back to see the frowning face.

 

“And are you a good boy?” Mr Brocklehurst asked.

 

Endeavour drew breath to answer, but his stepmother cut in. “Perhaps the less said on that subject, the better.” Hurt washed through him despite himself, and he darted a fierce look in her direction.

 

“Hmm, pity. Little boy, do you know where the wicked go when they die?”

 

“To hell, sir.”

 

The bible dwelt extensively on the subject of hell, and his stepmother frequently mentioned passages which suggested Endeavour might be going to it.

 

“And what is hell?”

 

“A burning pit, full of fire,” he recited dutifully.

 

“And should you like to be in that pit?” Endeavour shook his head. “What must you do to avoid it?”

 

Endeavour thought for a moment. It was a difficult question, logically speaking. Death was unavoidable, but bargaining to stay out of hell seemed a fruitless proposition. Rather self-serving, too. There was, then, no rightanswer. “Stay in good health for as long as possible, sir,” he said cautiously.

 

“ _Wicked_  child,” Mr Brocklehurst scolded. Endeavour dropped his gaze to the floor, and quickly tuned out the following conversation as Mr Brocklehurst praised other children that were better and more pious than him – at some length. It was a familiar litany, being only a slight variation on that which he usually heard from his stepmother.

 

Until finally something caught his attention. “School?” Endeavour repeated, looking up with a shocked smile, hardly daring to hope.

 

“Mr Brocklehurst is headmaster of a school for boys, Highwood,” his stepmother explained. Endeavour’s mind almost burst with questions, but he quieted at a warning glance from her. “Will you be able to accept him, sir?”

 

Mr Brocklehurst roused. “Yes, yes, he shall have a place with us. It is a fine school, with firm discipline. We believe in teaching the boys humility and usefulness.”

 

“That is exactly what the boy needs. He is… it shames me to say it, but he has a tendency towards deceit.”

 

Endeavour’s eyes flashed up to meet hers at that, his face flushing brilliant red. Her gaze was calm and judgemental, with no sign of the lie she had just told.

 

“Ah, there is nothing so sad as a deceitful child. Do not worry, madam, he will be… corrected.” Mr Brocklehurst’s look was stern.

 

“Then I shall look forward to you receiving him as soon as possible?”

 

The rest of the conversation vanished in a dull roar as Endeavour carefully moved his hands behind his back so that no-one would see the tight fists they formed. All of his hopes of school seemed ruined at the thought that they would dislike him – think him a liar – before he even arrived.

 

Mr Brocklehurst left, and his stepmother dismissed Endeavour immediately afterwards.

 

With each slow step towards the door the anger built within him, like steam with no valve for release. Endeavour placed his hand on the doorknob, feeling the cold, hard ridge of the metal press into his skin, and waged a brief internal war.

 

“You said I was deceitful,” he said eventually, back still to her.

 

After a long moment of silence, she stirred. “You do not understand these things. Children must be corrected for their faults.”

 

He turned the knob and cracked the door open, lips pressed together as he supressed his instinctive response. But this was too much, insult added to a hundred injuries and rubbed like salt in the wound.

 

He jarred the door shut again and turned to face her. “Deceit is not  _my_ fault!” he said coolly, and the release of saying it felt almost ecstatic.

 

She didn’t react outwardly, her look disinterested, but he thought he saw a glimmer of spite in her eyes. “There is something not  _right_  about you, I have thought so ever since I set foot in this house. You are too passionate - and always sneaking around! I’ll not have you influencing my Joyce.”

 

“She’s my sister! I would  _never_  harm her.”

 

His stepmother huffed a disbelieving breath, staring down her nose at him.

 

“Your very presence harms her. Your company degrades her. And perhaps you do mean her harm - why should I believe a word you say?”

 

“I have never lied to you. I would never…” His voice cracked slightly, and Endeavour licked his lips. Driven on by some inner demon, he spoke again. “Have I ever called you mother, said I loved you?”

 

If he had hoped to move her, to elicit some emotion, he was unsuccessful. Her eyes were still cold and hard, her mouth pursed with displeasure.

 

“How then have I been deceitful? It is _you_ who are unchristian,” he added rashly, and felt a sudden, invisible chill at the look on her face.

 

“If you aim to convince me of your good character with such intemperate words… No. You are no longer welcome here, Endeavour Morse.”

 

“I am glad to go to school,” he said determinedly.

 

He would miss Joyce of course, but he could write to her.

 

His stepmother watched him for a moment, and seemed to reach a decision. “In light of your actions here today, this decision extends to your holidays. You are not to set foot in this house. Do not bother appealing to your father; I have already discussed it with him.”

 

Endeavour stared at her, stunned despite himself. This went beyond whatever petty hatred she had for him – this was  _his_  house. And whatever her personal animosity towards him, surely his father had no reason to support her in such a decision?

 

Creeping cold settled in his belly, but he was determined not to show his fear.

 

“As if I would want to,” he scoffed, and strode out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bear with me, Morse won’t actually meet Thursday for a couple of chapters. This is pretty niche (you know, more so than turning Morse into a cat), so I've no idea if anyone will read it, but the idea just got into my head…
> 
> And wow, writing young Morse is difficult.


	2. School and After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I don't want this to end up as long as Jane Eyre, I'm cherry picking. And it's been a good long while since I read the book :)

Highwood Institution was not what Endeavour had expected when he’d thought of a school. When he later asked another child there, he was told that it was called an institution because it was partially funded by charity. In hindsight it made perfect sense - of course his stepmother wouldn’t wish to pay for his education.

 

His first impression in the gloom of early evening was of a stark, forbidding place; the adults he passed looked harried and dour, and the children thin and worn.

 

Dark, arched passageways seemed like a maze, and he was lost within two turnings. After walking across what seemed like the entire school, he was ushered briskly into a large office – that of the superintendent, the teacher leading him said. The superintendent was a handsome, fair-haired man who glanced briefly at Endeavour through small spectacles and commented that he was small for ten years of age. The man seemed distracted and busy, and Endeavour was sent away to bed a few moments later.

 

It was hard to grasp his bearings. This felt like a completely different world.

 

Things didn’t improve the following day, nor the day after. Small things he had taken for granted – the ability to wash in water which wasn’t freezing cold and covered in ice, bread which wasn’t stale, clothes which were of a quality not to need constant mending – were missed keenly. Lessons themselves were interesting enough, though it was all rote-learning with very little thinking, and the teachers grew easily annoyed at being contradicted in any fashion, whether by word, look or imagined slight.

 

He was caned, for not being able to hold his tongue.

 

He was caned again.

 

Despite the discipline, the instructor of Endeavour’s group seemed pleased with his quick understanding, and often called upon him for answers. Endeavour devoured as much as he could of their books during lessons, slyly looking to the pages ahead.

 

He was caned again.

 

The other boys ranged from quiet and timid to rough and boisterous, though even the latter were careful not to invoke the wrath of their wardens. Endeavour was not included in their sports at break time, but he soon found out he could apply to one of the teachers to be allowed to take a book for a brief period.

 

Often he ended up sharing a bench outside with John Burns, a boy a year or two older who was also fond of reading. John was the first boy there to show friendship to him, although at least at first Endeavour had the impression he was interrupting John’s desire to be alone. Sometimes they talked a little, but Endeavour was shy to talk about his family, and John didn’t press. Perhaps he understood only too well, for his mother had also died and his father remarried. John was kind though, and patient, and almost without realising it Endeavour began to confide in him.

 

The older boy tolerated his own punishments with an equanimity which Endeavour envied and despised in equal measure. Endeavour had once declared to John that he would never take an unjust beating quietly – that it wasn’t _right_ for them to be treated so – the very day before his first punishment.

 

A teacher, not his own instructor but one of a neighbouring group, had announced loudly that Endeavour had been gazing out of the window rather than studying his textbook. Ironically this was an accusation that would frequently have had merit, as Endeavour tended to drift off into daydreams when finished with his exercises, but this time it was untrue. His own instructor, though he had not seen the offence, said that Endeavour would have to be punished.

 

When he was ordered to fetch the cane, the expected fury didn’t come. Instead he felt a cold detachment, which lasted right up until his first tears, and then after that only pain and shame.

 

He sat quietly afterwards, his thighs and buttocks smarting, and stared straight ahead. Every part of him prayed that no one was looking at him, that no one had seen him cry, but he knew that they would have. He had seen it sometimes, when it was other boys. Next time, he resolved that he wouldn’t show  _anything_.

 

\--------------------

 

After a few months, Mr Brocklehurst finally visited; for a headmaster he was notably absent for most of the year. The superintendent, Mr Temple, did the majority of the necessary duties, and appeared to be a good deal more sympathetic than Mr Brocklehurst – although word was he was just as hard a hand with the cane when necessary.

 

The appearance of this grim-faced man, who had faded into a strange, nightmarish memory, sent chills down Endeavour’s spine. As the headmaster toured the room Endeavour attempted to hide his face by staring intently at his slate, but after a minute or two bony fingers grasped his face and wrenched it upwards.

 

“The new boy.” Mr Brocklehurst’s lip curled in a sneer. “Up. Stand on this stool - face the class.”

 

Endeavour did as he was bidden, and his heart pounded furiously in his chest as he looked out over a sea of featureless faces.

 

“This child stands before you, looking as ordinary as you or I. But I know from his excellent family that his innocent appearance is a deception. The evil one has already found a follower in this boy.” Mr Brocklehurst looked up at Endeavour, and his eyes seemed almost to glow as he growled, “This boy – this boy is a  _liar_.”

 

There were shocked gasps and whispers, and Endeavour couldn’t bring himself to look around the hall again. His face and ears felt as though they were set ablaze, and he focused desperately on his feet.

 

“Torment his body to save his soul. Children, do not associate with him. Teachers, mortify his flesh. Let him stand there until the evening as an example to you all!”

 

He stood as still as possible through the afternoon classes, desperately trying not to sway as his legs grew tired and he grew light-headed. His thoughts oscillated between wishing himself invisible and wishing for lightning to strike Mr Brocklehurst down, and constant worry squirmed in his gut over how the teachers and children would treat him now.

  

At some point, hours later, John snuck him some bread on the way back from dinner. Endeavour, who had not moved from where he had been commanded to stay atop the stool, stared at him in frank surprise.

 

“You don’t hate me?” he whispered uncertainly.

 

John gave him a slightly pitying look. “Endeavour, Mr Brocklehurst is not well liked here. And… I do not believe what he said of you.”

 

Unexpectedly having to blink back tears, Endeavour swallowed around a lump in his throat. A moment later he muttered his thanks, fingers trembling slightly as he reached for the roll of bread, and then he stayed there alone until one of the teachers came to release him before bed.

 

The matter did not rest, however; he was called to Mr Temple’s office the next morning after prayers.

 

The superintendent sat behind his desk and gestured Endeavour into a chair.

 

Endeavour had only been in this office once before – when he first arrived at the school, and even then only for a few minutes. Now he took the time to look around the room, drinking in the shelves and shelves of books with greedy eyes.

 

“You approve of my little library then?” Mr Temple asked amiably, and Endeavour’s eyes snapped back to him with a blush.

 

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

 

“Don’t be. It’s always good to see a pupil who is keen to learn. Your teachers tell me that you are doing well here, and that you apply yourself to your studies.”

 

Endeavour stayed silent.

 

“Regarding Mr Brocklehurst’s visit yesterday – Ah, yes, and I can see your feelings on that.”

 

“I’m not deceitful,” Endeavour said, trying to keep his voice even. He was aware that to say so was to call his family and Mr Brocklehurst liars themselves.

 

Mr Temple considered him for a moment. “John Burns has told me a little of your story.” Endeavour’s fingers twitched; he found he didn’t like the thought of other people discussing him. “Is there anyone who might be able to corroborate what you say?”

 

“I – I don’t know, sir. The manservant at the house, Richard? Or – or Mr Lloyd. He’s our apothecary.”

 

“Hmm, I know of Mr Lloyd. Very well, I shall write to him, and then we shall see. Go on, now, and here – take this with you.”

 

He slipped Endeavour a small slice of cake from his desk, wrapped in a napkin.

 

“Thank you, sir,” Endeavour breathed, astounded by the luxury, and was out the door like a shot before the man could change his mind.

 

\-------------

 

A few days later Mr Temple quietly announced to all of the pupils and teachers that he’d looked into the matter, and Endeavour’s character was free from all blame. The relief Endeavour felt was enormous – not because they’d been treating him badly in the interim, but because Mr Temple had actually done as he said he would.

 

It was the first time in Endeavour’s memory that someone had really taken his side – had stood up for him.

 

After that he settled into an easy routine. The other children occasionally included him, but he was happiest by himself, or talking to John. Punishments grew fewer as he learned to hold his tongue and keep his comments to himself.

 

Punishments which seemed unjust never ceased to rankle, but from John he learned how to keep a calm façade that over time became a part of him. Injury against himself became easier to ignore, but it still made his blood boil every time he saw John caned for some imagined slight his instructor had thought up.

 

He also gained more opportunities to learn and advance; Mr Temple had taken him aside one day, and said that considering his swift advancement he would tutor Endeavour privately in Latin. After a year, Endeavour was given free reign of his library – one of the few students trusted so.

 

He felt like he’d finally found his place in the school.

 

And then, two years after his arrival, typhus came to Highwood.

 

Poor sanitation and nutrition made the boys an easy target, and week after week more faces disappeared from the schoolroom. The small sick room had long since overflowed, and now other rooms were sequestered for children sick with fever and rash.

 

Everyone who had somewhere to go, someone to take them, left - pupils and teachers alike.

 

Endeavour stayed. He had not attempted to contact his family, though he knew that Mr Temple had written on his behalf. When the superintendent said nothing further, Endeavour had his answer as to their response.

 

He would almost rather that Mr Temple had not written, so that he didn’t have to know they had refused.

 

John stayed too, but he grew more and more pale and coughed a great deal. It didn’t seem to be typhus, but Endeavour monitored his friend’s health with a kind of furious desperation - which erupted on the day he woke to find the bed beside his own empty.

 

“John?  _John?_ ”

 

Endeavour ran through the corridors in his nightclothes, desperately trying to find one of the remaining teachers to ask. Instead he found the doctor – a face they’d seen all too often of late.

 

“Where is John? John Burns?” he asked, but quieter now.

 

“John Burns?” The doctor looked down his nose at Endeavour, and hesitated. “He is… very sick. It is not typhus he has, but consumption.” Endeavour had heard the word before, but had no idea what it meant. “He - he may not have long. You should prepare yourself.”

 

The doctor left Endeavour standing bereft and barefoot in the middle of the corridor, the thin cotton of his nightclothes tangled around his legs.

 

Might not have long? John, who was dearer to him than any of his own family save Joyce.

 

Endeavour moved to the door the doctor had come out of, and cautiously turned the knob.

 

Inside, John was alone – a small lump huddled under white sheets. The room was dark with the curtains drawn, and Endeavour could barely make him out. He moved inside, shutting the door behind him, and as he moved closer saw that John was shaking, and his hair matted with sweat.

 

“John?” Endeavour whispered, scared. “John?”

 

Pale blue eyes cracked open, and Endeavour was relieved to see recognition there despite the evident fever. “Endeavour?”

 

“I’m here, John.” Endeavour moved next to the bed, and reached out to take John’s hand.

 

“You… must be… cold,” John said with some effort. “Here.” He lifted the covers next to him, and without thought Endeavour slipped underneath.

 

It was warm, lying next to John – the other boy seemed to be radiating heat. His lips were dry and parched. Endeavour wriggled closer, and took John’s hand again. “You will get better,” he said, but his voice sounded about as certain as he was.

 

John smiled. “I will be home soon. With God in heaven, and my mother. I will pray for you, Endeavour.”

 

“You  _will_ get better,” Endeavour said again, this time more stubbornly.

 

He closed his eyes, just for a moment, and when he opened them again it was dark and John was cold and still next to him. 

 

\------------

 

Endeavour stayed at Highwood as a pupil for a further three years, focusing on Languages and Mathematics under Mr Temple’s guidance. At fifteen, he became a teacher there when the position was offered to him, working with the younger boys. His own education continued in the privacy of Mr Temple’s office, reading and discussing books, honing his Latin and Greek.

 

It wasn’t long before a strange sense of apathy pervaded his days; he had no great attachment to Highwood, aside from his friendship with Mr Temple, but had no idea of where else he might go or what else he might do. Upon assuming his current position, he had written to his father and sister, but received no reply. The idea of travelling back to his home, of seeing them in person, was a recurring thought which he repeatedly cast aside due to fear of what his reception might be.

 

The teaching he enjoyed immensely. It was a pleasure to be able to use his own methods, and see the boys learn quickly and well. Most of them were keen and eager to please, and he never treated them harshly. It was only the place which caused his dissatisfaction; he found he had a growing desire to see more of the world.

 

And then finally the day came when he and Mr Temple sat drinking tea in the supervisor’s office, and Mr Temple announced he was to be married. In order to support his new husband, he would be moving to a more prestigious school, accepting the post as headmaster there.

 

It was a cause for happiness, and yet secretly all Endeavour could think about was the impact it would have upon his own life – the loss of his friend and confidant, and the prospect of a new schoolmaster.

 

Mr Temple eyed him, and smiled. “You will not be happy here for long, I suspect.”

 

Endeavour gave a small smile, and shook his head slightly. His hair, perennially in need of a cut, brushed across his forehead.

 

“Have you ever considered attending university?” Mr Temple asked, peering at Endeavour through his glasses.

 

Endeavour laughed outright before seeing that his friend was serious. “University?”

 

Even had he attended a more prestigious school, there was no possibility of him being able to pay the extortionate fees.

 

“Yes. I think you might get on well there.”

 

It had been said sincerely, so Endeavour forced himself to entertain the idea properly. University, where he might be able to learn without restriction, where there would be an enormous library, and an opportunity to discuss his ideas with more than one person. It was a dream – an image of high, golden towers – and after a moment he put it away as such.

 

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I would have liked that very much.”

 

“I have a friend at Oxford.” And now Endeavour’s eyes darted up to meet Mr Temple’s, because this was going past mere speculation. “They award scholarships, you know. I can write you a letter of recommendation. You would have more options available to you, after attending university.”

 

Endeavour’s prospects at the moment were admittedly few. He had been shying away from contacting his father again, because he was hurt despite himself by the lack of reply each time.

 

“I… A scholarship?” Endeavour hadn’t known such a thing was possible. Sometimes he felt so ignorant of the world.

 

“Yes,” Mr Temple said patiently. “Would you like me to contact them?”

 

“I – I’m only sixteen.”

 

“Near enough to seventeen.”

 

Any other protests he might have summoned were irrelevant, and drowned by the rising tide of  _want_ that flooded through him.

 

“Please,” he mumbled, but Mr Temple heard him, and reached for quill and ink.

 

“Here, I will tell you what I shall write.”

 

 

\-----------------

 

Endeavour gathered himself and wrote to his father again, saying that he would be leaving Highwood soon, and asking for a meeting. Two weeks later, he received a brief missive from his stepmother, saying that he had been disinherited in favour of a younger son, and should not contact them again.

 

Endeavour had always cherished a hope, however small and secret, that there might be a day he would be welcomed back. That they would see what he had made of himself; that his father might repent and welcome his firstborn back to his place in the family. That Endeavour might see how his sister had grown up, and if she remembered him fondly.

 

A foolish notion, but one that it was hard to stomach the loss of, nonetheless. Still, he thought as he dropped the letter to the table, it was better to know. Some hopes were painful to hold onto.

 

\----------------

 

 _Oxford_.

 

\---------------

 

It was everything he had imagined, and a thousand things more. It was a  _city_ , where Endeavour had never seen anything bigger than a village before. It had rows of houses and shops, and roads which split to lead to more rows of houses, and green fields and rivers and Colleges! Colleges full of learning, and books, and  _freedom_.

 

Absent from the rules and restrictions of Highwood, his habits and interest in learning guided his path. Free time was spent devouring more reading material rather than frequenting the tavern. He was disgusted by the boys who, even in the first term, showed loose morals and sloppy habits, indulging in vices he hadn’t even known existed due to his sheltered upbringing. It was as though they weren’t there to learn at all!

 

Luckily the five boys he was roomed with were all also there on scholarships, most of them intent on going into the clergy, and seemed a decent sort. They kept mostly to themselves, and studied hard. Initially they were a little standoffish due to his youth, but he soon proved he could match them in battles of wit, and gained their grudging respect. He formed no friendships the equal of his childhood kinship with John Burns, but acquaintances soon became people he occasionally studied with, and then people he would discuss the nature of the world with until two in the morning.

 

Within days of his arrival he had become known as ‘Morse’ – courtesy of their first tutorial. Their tutor called them all by their last names, and everyone at the College soon picked up the habit. Apparently it was common at many schools as well, Highwood seemingly being the exception.

 

Morse.

 

It seemed to mark the closing of his childhood – leaving his given name behind, becoming a man.

 

His tutor - a man by the name of Lorimer –praised his knowledge and progress and provided him with a constant stream of challenges, and Morse could almost feel his mind stretching and waking up. It was exhilarating!

 

They studied and read aloud from various texts in Latin and Greek, some of which Morse was grateful to find himself familiar with, and it was a pleasure to be surrounded by minds as keen as his own – even if some of the other students were markedly less enthused by the classics.

 

And the library! The Bodleian was the biggest collection of books he’d ever seen, more books that he’d known existed, and he spent hours and hours browsing the shelves and sitting reading until the bell rang to signal closing. It was the closest he could come to heaven, he thought, while he was still on earth.

 

He still felt out of place though, a sensation which haunted him. The scholarship made him feel as though he was there on charity, that he had to constantly prove his worth. It was odd to think that, had his family’s fortunes gone differently, he might have come here as the heir of a moderately wealthy family. Would he have felt he had more of a right to walk these hallowed halls were that the case, he often wondered?

 

He had as keen a desire to learn as any of the other boys, and if anything a sharper intellect than most. His clothes and second hand books marked him out from them though, and he was conscious of being leaner than anyone there – the nickname beanpole luckily hadn’t gained much traction.

 

Highwood had taken him away from an uncomfortable situation at home, but had been full of its own trials. Morse couldn’t regret his time there, though, since it had brought him here, somewhere he felt he might pursue a future.

 

\-----------------------

 

And then, after more than a year,  _Susan_.

 

She was the daughter of one of the Professors, and came to visit her father at the College sometimes. She was… beautiful. Softly curling chestnut hair, sparkling eyes, and a faraway expression; as though she could see beyond the world the rest of them lived in.  _Beautiful_.

 

Morse, like most of the boys in his college, admired her from afar - until one day he very literally bumped into her.

 

“I’m so sorry,” he apologized hastily, and bent to gather his books.

 

She smiled, and told him not to be, and he was lost.

 

It was an entirely foreign feeling, one which was almost beyond comprehension – that he could feel so consumed, so  _routed_  by this irrational longing to see her again. He knew nothing of her, other than her name, but he wanted to know everything.

 

A week later he very shyly and clumsily asked if she would consider meeting with him for a walk at the weekend, and she turned him down without a second thought. Rather than leaving it at that, she told him all about her handsome, rich fiancée, and made it very clear that Morse was beneath her consideration. Her tone stayed pleasant, but also more than slightly smug.

 

It burned.

 

Not because he’d thought he had so great a chance at wooing her – what had he to offer, after all? Not even because of the loss of a potential future with her, which he had dared, however briefly, to let himself imagine.

 

No, it was the fact that he was so clearly beneath her notice. That, as for the majority of his childhood, he was  _nothing_.

 

She must be asked all the time, he tried to tell himself. That was why she was so quick to scorn him. But it  _felt_ personal.

 

His tutor spoke to him about his distraction over the following weeks, and then had to speak to him again when Morse couldn’t bring his attention back to his studies.

 

But Morse couldn’t think of anything else, anything but how could she dismiss him as so unimportant that he’d never had a chance?

 

What was it about him that made it so easy for his father to ignore and discard him, for his stepmother to never look upon him with love, to make the first girl he thought he could care for dismiss him as irrelevant?

 

He caught her in the corridor; spoke heated words and painful pleas. She looked at him with pity and slight irritation, and the fire in his blood went out. He could not bear to be an object of pity.

 

He apologised with stiff correctness for having disturbed her, and resolved to put the matter behind him.

 

He had not anticipated that doing so would be taken out of his own hands.

 

\--------------------

 

His tutor called him to his office the next day. “Morse. Professor Davids has made a complaint about you harassing his daughter.” Morse opened his mouth to object, but Lorimer raised his hand. “The complaint has been made, Morse.”

 

The blood drained from his face as Morse flashed back to the day before – he hadn’t raised his voice, but he’d made his own scorn of her treatment of the feelings of others abundantly clear. He should have kept his temper.

 

After a minute, Lorimer cleared his throat, and said gently, “Morse. Your scholarship has been revoked. You’re to be sent down.”

 

The words didn’t make any sense for a moment, as though Morse had lost all command of the language.

 

“What?” he asked hoarsely.

 

“I’m truly sorry. You’ve been an excellent student, and I’m sorry to see you go, but I have no power to stop this.”

 

“But-“ Morse licked suddenly dry lips. “But I didn’t…”

 

“It is already done, Morse. Whatever happened, the outcome is fixed.”

 

“I – But what will I…”

 

His tutor looked down at his desk, and shuffled his papers to give Morse a minute to collect himself. “You’ve been here for just over a year now, and made good use of your time. I’m willing to give you a good reference for your time here, and won’t mention the cause of your leaving. You have teaching experience, I believe?”

 

Morse nodded numbly.

 

“Then you might perhaps do well as a private tutor.”

 

“A tutor?” Morse repeated, thrown.

 

Leave University? Leave  _Oxford_?

 

“Or your family…“

 

“No,” Morse interrupted, horrified at the thought of them finding out. They didn’t even know he was  _at_  university, but to find out he was being sent away in disgrace… “I, ah, I will advertise for a position. Thank you,” he added belatedly.

 

\-----------

 

_A young man accustomed to tuition is desirous of meeting with a situation in a private family where the children are under fifteen. He is qualified to teach the usual branches of a good English education, together with Latin, French, Mathematics and Music. Address E.M., care of Professor Lorimer, Lonsdale College, Oxford._

 

\--------------

 

_If E.M., who advertised in the Oxfordshire Herald of last Thursday, possesses the acquirements mentioned, and is in a position to give satisfactory references as to character and competency, a situation can be offered to him where there is but one pupil, a little boy of ten; and where the salary is forty pounds per annum. E.M. is requested to send references, name, address, and all particulars to the below address._

_Mrs Fairfax, Thornfield, Oxfordshire._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, done with the part I was a bit unsure of the characterisation for! I'm all excited to get Morse to Thornfield ;)
> 
> I have absolutely no idea what age young men went to university in the 19th century. I'm guessing it was around 20 so I'm making him go much earlier. I'm keeping Morse young so that he'll be the appropriate age when he hits going to Thornfield. We'll just skip around all the improbabilities of the situation, shall we?


	3. Thornfield Hall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The talented Anna has done adorable artwork of young Morse for this series, check it out here: http://oochilka.tumblr.com/post/143376760899/this-is-endeavour-morse-as-a-boy-for-strange-and (check out the rest of her Endeavour artwork out by clicking the Endeavour tag, it's all amazing!).

It was simultaneously a great wrench and a great relief to pack up his small box of things and leave the university behind him. Morse had known such idyllic happiness of learning there, but the city was now tainted by a sour note. Once he had put in motion the process, he found he longed for the change to happen.

 

Having inquired of his tutor and friends, Morse had discovered that Thornfield was an old, great house in the countryside in the north of Oxfordshire – near Millcote apparently. The idea of being out in the countryside, of being able to go for long rambles, was appealing.

 

He left with little fanfare, promising to write to his tutor and few friends without much certainty of doing so, and found himself on a coach heading off into the unknown again. There was an excitement to doing so which stirred his soul – he hadn’t thought he was restless at university until now, when he was leaving it.

 

_Thornfield_.

 

The name conjured up images of harsh, jagged battlements and wild, savage land. As the house finally loomed ahead of the coach in the darkness, Morse thought he wasn’t too far off the mark.

 

He couldn’t see much of the outside of the house at this time of night, but it was well lit and beautifully furnished as he was shown inside. And enormous. Morse might have been used to the large buildings of the Oxford Colleges, but the idea of this entire house – practically a castle – belonging to one family seemed unreal.

 

A lady with a stately bearing and hair long since grey met him in the entrance hall.

 

“Ah, come in, come in,” she said, and her manner was friendly and welcoming. Some tightly wound part of Morse relaxed a little, and he nodded to her in earnest greeting. “You must be tired after your journey. James, get his bags if you would. That’s James, James Strange. If you need anything just let him know. Oh, and here’s Shirley; something hot to drink for the gentleman, I think. Now, this way.”

 

She led him through to a smaller, warm room where she took a seat before the fire and gestured for him to do the same. The chair was surprisingly comfortable, and Morse relaxed for the first time all day; the bouncing of the carriage on uneven roads had made his bones ache.

 

“You must be Mrs Fairfax?”

 

“Yes, you are quite right, and you are Mr Morse. Ah, here.” She directed the maid to set a cup of broth down beside him, and he blew on it to cool it.

 

“The house is very grand,” he said, uncertain on how one was supposed to speak to the owner of such. She seemed surprisingly willing to talk to him for such a great lady. It boded well for his time here.

 

“Yes, it is a fine old place. Much better seen in the light, of course – I will give you a tour tomorrow. It will be nice having you here, the old house gets lonely sometimes.”

 

“And will I meet Master Fairfax tonight?”

 

She looked blank.

 

“Master Fairfax, my pupil?” Morse said more hesitantly.

 

“You mean Master Thursday? Mr Thursday’s son.”

 

Morse felt more than a little thrown. “Who is Mr Thursday?”

 

And now it was clear that they had had a miscommunication, for she stared at him in bewilderment. “Why, Mr Thursday is the master of Thornfield Hall.”

 

“I thought…  _you_  owned Thornfield.”

 

Her hand flew to her mouth, and after a moment she looked tickled pink. “Me? Own Thornfield? I never heard of such a thing. No, good sir, I am only the housekeeper.”

 

Morse stuttered an apology, but she waved him off. “The master is away from home at the moment – he travels extensively for business. But the children are here, young Sam and Joan.”

 

He blinked at her in startlement. “A second child? But your letter only mentioned-“

 

“Well, there’s only the one boy. Joan’s near twelve now. She’s getting old for her nursemaid; I’m looking for a governess for her.”

 

“I…” Morse cut himself off and thought through what he’d been about to say. He didn’t want to make a misstep before he’d been in the house for an hour. More slowly, “She would be welcome to join our lessons in the meantime. I cannot offer tutelage in all of the relevant subjects for ladies, but whichever would be suitable…”

 

Mrs Fairfax looked at him doubtfully. “Surely that would inconvenience you – slow the lessons down? Not that she isn’t a bright young thing, but…”

 

He drank the last of his broth, and placed the cup back on the table. “I’m sure it would be no inconvenience, but it was merely a suggestion, there is no-“

 

“No, no, it is a kind offer. I’m not sure what the master would want… let me think on it. Now, I shall show you to your room.”

 

She led him up the stairs, past fine tapestries, exquisite paintings and so many richly furnished rooms that his eyes almost ceased to take in each new luxury.

 

“Here. I thought you might like this better than one of the big rooms at the front of the house, but let me know if you wish to change. The views from this side are better too.”

 

“No,” he breathed happily as he entered and looked around. It certainly wasn’t small by his standards, and comfortably furnished. “I like it extremely well. Thank you, Mrs Fairfax.”

 

She gave a pleased smile, and bid him goodnight.

 

\------------

 

He’d thought perhaps he would struggle to sleep, on his first night in a new place amongst strangers, but the bed was deep and soft and the quiet was a blessing – undisturbed by the movements of four roommates.

 

He woke with a luxurious stretch in the morning, and threw back the curtains to find a glorious view of fields, woods and a small stream – untouched by more than a few wooden fences as far as the eye could see. Untamed nature.

 

It was early yet, and he dressed hastily and made his way out to the front gardens. These were more structured, bound by neat hedges and stone walls, but even so there was a wildness to them which Morse would not have expected in such a fine house. Perhaps because the master was from home so often?

 

For the first time, it occurred to Morse to wonder about the mistress of the house.

 

The house itself, seen in the light, was a large, sprawling monstrosity. It made Morse think unaccountably of a curmudgeonly stone gargoyle, if one could have been somehow been turned into an estate by magic. The stone was grey and aging; some of the stonework at the top of the house was crumbling and in need of repair. Still, it had a certain stately dignity to it; and character enough to spare!

 

Mrs Fairfax found him slowly circling the herb garden half an hour later.

 

“My, but you’re an early riser. Come in for some breakfast, and then I’ll introduce you to the children.”

 

It was just the two of them for breakfast, in one of the small morning rooms. The children ate with their nursemaid, and the cook and few servants in the kitchen.

 

Within five minutes of sitting down, Morse gained the impression that Mrs Fairfax had been without company for too long. She seemed inclined to talk at some length. He helped himself to fresh bread, butter and preserves, and listened attentively.

 

“The master’s late wife? Oh, she was a dear, sweet woman; a lady in every sense of the word. She died in childbirth – I’ve never seen a man so broken as Mr Thursday after her death. Ever since then he’s travelled the world – always off to once place or another.”

 

“And the children?”

 

“Oh, he loves them dearly, and he’s an excellent father. In the past he would sometimes take them with him, indeed, they lived elsewhere for a few years, but-“ And she stopped abruptly, as though she thought she’d said too much.

 

Morse’s curiosity was much piqued, but he changed the subject to the house and grounds to allow her to recover.

 

“When do you expect Mr Thursday to return?” he asked as they rose from the table.

 

“Oh, Lord knows. He never tells me when he’ll be returning – it could be a month or a year. I keep the place in constant readiness for him – I’ll not be caught napping.”

 

It seemed an odd manner of behaviour to Morse, but then perhaps this was how very rich people did things. It must be hard on the children though, not knowing when their father would return. Surely she had been jesting when she said it could be a year?

 

“And what sort of man is he?” he asked curiously. “What do you know of him?”

 

“Well, I…” She appeared briefly stymied. “He’s a good master, always has been. I’ve never had cause for complaint.”

 

“But what are his likes, his tastes?”

 

“Well, I don’t know, now I come to think of it.” She paused, and they walked in silence for a moment. “As I said, he’s a good father. He – I do not entirely  _understand_  him.”

 

“How so?”

 

“He has a peculiar way about him. Sometimes I do not know if he is in jest or in earnest when he speaks. He is – well, you will see for yourself when he comes.”

 

Whenever that might be, Morse thought. The idea of another character to study was appealing, especially if Mr Thursday was as curious as Mrs Fairfax made him seem.

  
Two sets of footsteps pounded down the staircase in front of them, and Morse put his thoughts aside for another time.

 

“Sam! Joan!” came a sharp voice from further up the stairs, and the two children slowed to a more proper pace as they reached the bottom. Morse studied them with interest.

 

Both were dark haired and blue eyed, very nicely dressed and freckled from time spent outdoors. Joan was hesitant, hanging back, but Sam came forward boldly to shake Morse’s hand.

 

“How do you do? I’m Sam Thursday.”

 

“How do you do, Sam? You may call me Mr Morse. And you must be Miss Thursday, it’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

 

She nodded and came forward. “My name’s Joan. Is it true that you’ll teach me too?” she asked, wide-eyed.

 

Morse glanced to the side where Mrs Fairfax stood. She tilted her head.

 

“If you like,” he said. “You will have to study as hard as your brother.”

 

She nodded earnestly, dark curls bobbing, and he smiled at the two of them.

 

“Perhaps you could show him the schoolroom?” Mrs Fairfax said to the nursemaid who had followed them down.

 

“Yes, of course. Please follow me, sir.”

 

The schoolroom was excellently outfitted, and Morse took quiet pleasure in examining the books and instruments laid out. He set the children to writing a short piece of text that he could use to judge their ability, and then moved about the room taking inventory.

 

The large globe in particular fascinated him; he spun it idly and wondered whereabouts on it Mr Thursday might be at that moment.

 

\--------------

 

Time seemed to speed by as he settled into his new position. A week passed, a month, then three.

 

The children learned quickly and well, eager creatures who, despite the odd bit of mischief from Sam, were apt to want to please. Sam was more inclined to mathematics than languages, and Morse took pains to encourage his weaker subjects as well as praise his strengths. Joan accompanied her brother for all of his lessons, so Morse taught them both the same – though he had no idea what else a young girl of her age ought to be learning. Drawing and needlecraft, probably, but he was of no help there. He did spend time teaching them both to play the piano, though his own skills were a little rusty, and found Joan had the beginnings of a very pleasant singing voice.

 

And Thornfield – how quickly Morse grew to love it. His first impression did not change, it was a grim, forbiddingly looking place – grey and cold at the end of winter – but Morse attached himself to it with a fervour that surprised him. The fine furnishings he could take or leave, but the house itself, and the gardens and fields… Many a day when lessons were finished he wrapped up warmly and took himself outside with a book. Or even without the book, sitting and daydreaming as he watched the water rushing past in the nearby stream.

 

And oh,  _the library_. A great deal smaller than the Bodleian, to be sure, but a room filled with warmth and character, each volume selected with care over generations. More recent additions were obvious both from where they were shelved and the age of the volumes, and Morse entertained himself trying to guess the character of the man who had chosen them. Mr Thursday was certainly widely read, and had excellent choice in both prose and verse. The breadth of his travels showed here, and Morse read books collected from around the world with fascination and unexpected yearning.

 

Occasionally he went up to the leads to see the view from the roof – although Mrs Fairfax discouraged it – and imagined he could almost see those far-off lands if he just strained his eyes a little harder. The same restlessness which had plagued him at Highwood and Oxford still lurked within him, despite his contentment, though he could not have said what was missing in his life.

 

He had a pleasant occupation with good pupils, an excellent and friendly household, and the makings of a career. Why, then, did he still long for something more?

 

Sometimes he heard strange laughter and noises in the attic on the way down from the leads; Mrs Fairfax had suggested it was one of the servants in a room along that corridor - a Grace Poole. Morse caught only the odd glimpse of her though; she seemed to stay mostly secluded in her rooms doing the sewing.

 

All of the other servants were fine, friendly folk. Jim Strange helped with everything from doing the heavy lifting to the gardening, and Shirley Trewlove always had a smile and a cup of tea for Morse when they broke from lessons. Mrs Fairfax was nice enough, but Morse didn’t feel as though he could  _talk_ to her, and she didn’t understand half of the references he made or thoughts he suggested.

 

It was at moments like that he missed Oxford keenly; missed stimulating conversation and speaking his mind without being looked at as though he were a sphinx.

 

Everywhere he’d been drew out another side of himself, an aspect which he wore to deal with the environment he was in. Sometimes he wondered who he would be, if he could only express all of himself at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry! Poor Win! But I could work out a way to have her in the story and not have her miserable or suffering, so...


	4. Mr Thursday

It was already growing dark when he set out for the post office with a letter Mrs Fairfax had asked him to post. Jim had offered to drive him, but Morse had laughed the offer off and said he’d enjoy the walk.

 

Now, as fog curled up around his feet and he stumbled over the undergrowth, he ruefully wished he had at least thought to follow the road. The evening was fresh and crisp though, and the moon shone brightly through the trees. He would reach the village soon enough, there was no need to worry about a little bad weather!

 

Immediately he had the thought, a strange sound echoed along the path. A crack, and then a drumming noise. Morse froze for a moment, alert for the slightest movement, then shook himself and carried on. A deer, perhaps. Nothing to fear.

 

His feet hit a slight rise and firmer ground, and he looked down to see the surface of a road. Another step forward and a low, dark blur nearly bowled him over. He whirled to stare after the shape rapidly vanishing into the fog, and before he could get his bearings the drumming noise came again and then there was a loud, awful noise – a horse’s distress – and as he turned he was greeted with a vision of flailing hooves as the animal reared. 

 

His hands flew up to shield his face as he ducked backwards, and there was a strangled yell and then a thud. The horse settled skittishly on all fours, and shied a few paces away; Morse now made out the fallen form of his rider.

 

“Blast,” the man cursed, and started to rise. He barely made it to his feet before one of his legs started to give way, and Morse darted forwards to support him as he lost his balance.

 

“You’re injured, sir!”

 

“It’s–“ The man bit off the rest of his reply, and Morse saw a look of pain cross his face.

 

Morse helped him over to a nearby tree, the two of them doing an awkward, stumbling dance as he supported the stranger’s weight. The man let out a relieved sigh as he leant against the trunk and took the weight off his leg.

 

“Just my ankle,” he grunted, and then looked up and seemed to take Morse in for the first time.

 

“Can I help, sir?” Morse asked anxiously, looking sideways up and down the road in the hope of someone else passing. The darkness and fog were complete, however, and unbroken by movement or light.

 

“It’s not broken, just a sprain.”

 

Morse hovered for a moment, but the man didn’t seem disposed to speak further. “Well, I can’t leave you here! Would you like me to fetch someone, back from where I’ve come from, or from the village?”

 

“And where exactly  _have_ you come from?”

 

“I have come from Thornfield Hall, just beyond the hill.”

 

“Thornfield, eh?” And now the stranger’s gaze grew more acute as he looked Morse over. “And what is it you do there? Not one of the servants, I think.”

 

“No, sir. I’m the tutor.”

 

“Ah, the  _tutor_.”

 

Morse hesitated, unsure of how to deal with the man’s surly abruptness. “Are you sure I cannot fetch someone?”

 

“No, no, I’ll be fine in a minute.”

 

Taking the opportunity to study the stranger, Morse saw a strong face of thirty five or so; the man was not handsome but his features were arresting. The lines of pain his face wore did not seem to abate, and when he tried to push away from the tree a minute later he grunted again.

 

“If you could bring my horse to me…” the stranger requested with a sigh, and Morse looked away from him to the large, restless shadow several yards down the road.

 

He took two steps towards it, and then stopped to regroup. Horses were not creatures Morse knew well; he’d never learned to ride and had no cause to come in contact with them otherwise. They were large, and prone to violence, and he had absolutely no desire to get within ten feet of this one.

 

Behind him the figure under the tree stirred, and Morse girded himself. Nothing else for it.

 

He approached the horse carefully from the side, knowing enough of herbivore anatomy to guess that it might not be able to see straight ahead. The last thing he wanted to do was spook it again. Holding his body as far back as possible, he reached out a hand and made a grab for the reins.

 

The horse’s head jerked back, and a giant white eye rolled wildly at him. Morse set his teeth and grabbed again – damned if he would be defeated by a  _horse_.

 

It was however, a very strong and agile horse, and one which was particularly determined to evade him.

 

“Enough,” called a voice from behind him, and Morse felt himself redden in the darkness as he turned to find the stranger watching him with exasperation. “Come here, will you?”

 

With one last baleful look at the animal, Morse made his way back over to the tree, and the man gestured for him to come closer.

 

“If there’s no chance of getting him here, then I shall have to go to him, hmm? Lend me your shoulder again.”

 

Morse carefully tucked himself into the man’s body, supporting his weight as he started to move. He could feel muscle shifting under his hands, and was more careful this time to walk at the stranger’s hobbling pace.

 

He only felt slight mortification when the man managed to take the first reins on the first try. The horse obviously recognised his master, that was all.

 

Morse lent a final hand to aid the man into the saddle, and then dark eyes were glaring down at him. “Take more care on your night time wanderings in future,” the stranger said brusquely, then, “Pilot!” A dark shape emerged from the shifting fog on the road, and Morse could see now the thing he had first encountered was a large dog, black and white and busy sniffing interestedly along the path. 

 

The man spurred the horse on, and within seconds was out of sight.

 

Well, Morse thought bemusedly, that had been an odd addition to his evening. And then he put it out of his mind entirely.

 

\-------------------

 

The whirlwind of activity when he stepped back into Thornfield took him by surprise. There was a coach outside from which Jim was unloading boxes, too busy to stop and talk, and Shirley and another servant rushed past him through the main rooms.

 

He stood bewildered for a long moment, and then Mrs Fairfax came out of the entrance to the study, trailed by a familiar looking hound.

 

“Oh, Mr Morse, thank God you’ve returned. The master is home, and he’s in a terrible state.”

 

Morse almost couldn’t process the words.

 

“The master?” he asked numbly.

 

“Yes, he had an accident on the road – thrown from his horse. The doctor’s with him now; he can barely walk!”

 

“Of course I can,” growled a low voice from the doorway behind her, and she moved to the side to reveal the dark stranger whom Morse had encountered on the road. For all that Morse had suspected it since the moment he saw the dog, the man’s appearance still came as a shock.

 

“Mr Thursday,” Morse said, and his voice cracked slightly.

 

“Oh, sir, this is Mr Morse, the tutor I engaged for young Sam.”

 

The man’s eyes raked over Morse, and then he looked to the side, dismissing him. “Help me to the chair,” he muttered to the doctor. “Oh, and Mr Morse? You will join me for tea tomorrow at six. Don’t be late.”

 

\---------------

 

The next day Morse released the children from their schoolwork so that they could spend time with their father, and went for a long walk into the hills. He walked with more energy than his usual winding pace, and after some time admitted that he was unsettled by the new presence at the hall.

 

Whatever distant curiosity he had held regarding the nature of the master of Thornfield had been upset by both of the encounters the evening before; for some reason he seemed unable to maintain his equilibrium around the man.

 

The day was cold and grey, and a light drizzle started up. His face and clothes grew quickly damp, but he barely noticed until the drizzle thickened into plump raindrops. He was more than a mile from Thornfield at least, and his cloak would do little to protect him. Instead he took shelter under a thick copse of trees, and listened to the pitter patter of rain striking the leaves for some minutes.

 

Why should it have affected him so, the arrival of Mr Thursday?

 

Eventually he gave up on the idea of the rain easing and set off at an awkward lope for the hall, trying to stay under the trees as much as possible and to not slip on the rapidly forming mud. He arrived almost soaked to the skin, and Shirley tutted when she saw him.

 

He passed the rest of the afternoon quietly in his room with a book, keeping warm to try and stave off any chance of a cold. By the time six o’ clock rolled around, he had thoroughly resolved to enjoy the opportunities of new conversation, and not let Mr Thursday disturb him.

 

\---------------

 

When Morse next saw him, Mr Thursday was arranged in an armchair in front of the fire, his bad leg resting on a footstool. He cast frequent, fond glances at the children, who sat nearby at a table, playing a game of some sort. Mrs Fairfax had looked up from her place by the children as Morse came in, and gave him a brief smile.

 

“Ah, Mr Morse,” Mr Thursday said, seeming immediately aware of his presence. His gaze captured and held Morse as he spoke, and he lifted an old, worn pipe to his lips.

 

“Sir.”

 

Morse didn’t know what he’d been expecting from the master of Thornfield Hall, but he wasn’t entirely sure that this man fit the image Mrs Fairfax had painted of him. He looked a good deal less wild than he had the night before, and without the stress of pain his face seemed strong but good natured. Dark hair was strung through with the faintest strands of premature grey, but without doubt his strongest characteristic was his dark eyes, which were both commanding and uncomfortably penetrating.

 

Morse stood straight, with his hands behind his back, and stared back. He’d never been much good at holding people’s eyes though, and after a minute he dropped his own gaze to the carpet, feeling his cheeks warm to a dull red.

 

“Come and sit over here, then,” Mr Thursday said in a no-nonsense tone which instantly made Morse feel more at ease. “I should become better acquainted with the new occupant of Thornfield.”

 

Mr Thursday puffed at his pipe as Morse slowly crossed the room, only pausing to answer Mrs Fairfax in the affirmative when she asked if he would like a cup of tea. She sat back down at the table with the children to pour, and Morse had a moment’s irrational longing to be sat there with them, rather than singled out as he was.

 

“So,” Mr Thursday drawled. He said nothing further for a full minute, then, “You’re the new tutor? How long have you been here now?”

 

“For three months, sir,” Morse answered readily.

 

“And how did you come to Thornfield?”

 

A question with a number of answers. The obvious, then. “I advertised, and Mrs Fairfax answered my advertisement.”

 

Mrs Fairfax glanced over at him with another smile, hands busy pouring tea. “Aye, for which I am thankful. You’ve been a wonder with the children, Mr Morse, and a pleasure to have around the house.”

 

A puff of smoke rose as Mr Thursday huffed in response. “Indeed,” he said, and lowered the pipe to stare intently at Morse. His bushy eyebrows were drawn together as though something about Morse puzzled him, though Morse felt the sentiment should have been rather the other way around. Surprisingly, Mrs Fairfax had been entirely correct in her measure of this man’s manner after all – there was something in his countenance which made it almost impossible to guess what he was thinking.

 

Morse found him unexpectedly fascinating.

 

“A pleasure he may be around the house, Mrs Fairfax,” and there was an unreadable look thrown Morse’s way, “but he’s a menace on the roads. Why, only last night he was responsible for felling my horse!”

 

Mrs Fairfax exclaimed in disbelief, and Morse’s own lips parted to deliver an automatic denial. Then he saw the faintest hint of amusement in Mr Thursday’s eyes, in the curve at the corner of his mouth, and pressed his lips tightly together again instead.

 

Curiouser and curiouser.

 

“Whatever can you mean, sir?” Mrs Fairfax asked again, bewildered, and passed the master’s tea to Morse. Morse carefully passed it on, hands completely steady under Mr Thursday’s watchful eyes.

 

“He was lurking in the darkness and fog; scared the wits out of my horse! I rather thought he might have been a devil, or a sprite of some sort to start with.”

 

“A sprite, father?” Sam asked laughingly. The children had both been listening to the conversation with great interest. Mr Thursday’s lips twitched.

 

“Oh, yes,” the master said gravely. “Phantoms and fairies are known for their tricks, you know, and he appeared out of the mist exactly like something from a fairy-tale.”

 

Morse accepted his own cup of tea, and took a cautious sip, choosing not to reply.

 

“I don’t think he is any of those things.” Joan said. “You’re being silly, Daddy.”

 

“Quite right,” Mr Thursday said, and darted another interested look at Morse under the guise of a frown. “So then, where did you come from, Mr Morse? What was your education?”

 

Morse drew a quick, deep breath, and set his cup aside. “I attended Highwood school, sir, in ----shire. Then-“

 

“Ah, I’ve heard of it. A charitable institution, isn’t it? And how long were you there?”

 

“Seven years, sir.”

 

“ _Seven_   _years_?” Mr Thursday peered at him. “No wonder you’ve the look of another world. It is a religious institution I believe, directed by a Mr Brocklehurst?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“A parson.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“And I’m sure you all worshipped him; postulants worshipping their priest.”

 

“No, sir,” Morse said without thought. He cast a quick glance at the children, and regretted his words. “That is, I…” he stumbled.

 

“No, eh?” Mr Thursday puffed at his pipe again, and regarded Morse keenly. “You were quick enough to answer. No, sir, a postulant not worship his priest?”

 

Morse was painfully aware of every other set of ears in the room. Still. He raised his head high and stared intently at Mr Thursday. “He was a harsh man, and there were better models of Christian behaviour available,” he said coolly.

 

Mr Thursday gave a brief bark of a laugh. “Were there, now? And then after-“

 

Sam, who had been gradually fidgeting more and more during their conversation, turned fully sideways in his chair and asked, “Father, did you bring us a present?”

 

“ _Sam!_ ” Joan hissed.

 

Their father’s attention was successfully diverted. “A present?” he asked, with mock-surprise overlaying his words.

 

Sam was taken in. “Yes,” he insisted. “You promised before you left, you said that you would bring us back something marvellous!”

 

“Sam!”

 

“Well, and so I did.” Mr Thursday’s eyes crinkled as he smiled, and Morse found something very agreeable in the man’s obvious love for his children. “Though you shall have to wait until tomorrow.”

 

Sam subsided, a small grin on his face, but now Joan piped up. “What about for Mr Morse?”

 

“Mr Morse?” Mr Thursday’s head turned and he gazed piercingly at Morse. “Did you expect a present, Mr Morse?”

 

“No, sir,” Morse said hurriedly, incredibly embarrassed. He dared a quick, scolding look at Joan, and gave a small gesture which turned her back to engage in conversation with her brother.

 

Mr Thursday did not look away from Morse, and the blatant assessment made Morse uncomfortable.

 

“Are you not fond of presents?”

 

The tone was curious, as though it wouldn’t have been at all odd for Morse to expect a present from him. Truth be told, Morse couldn’t remember receiving one since he was a small boy – except perhaps the book Mr Temple had left him when the superintendent had left Highwood

 

“I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “I – that is...” He immediately feared that Mr Thursday would read more from his answer than he might have wished. “And I have done nothing to earn one, sir,” he added quickly. “I am a stranger.”

 

Mr Thursday hummed thoughtfully, and said nothing. Ears burning, Morse rose from the chair he was seated in and moved to the table with the others.

 

Sam rolled a set of dice, one of them spilling off the edge of the table, and the boy got down on the floor with a put upon sigh to retrieve it.

 

“What are you playing?” Morse asked Joan, though he suspected he knew.

 

“The game that you taught us, to help with our mathematics. Sam keeps being mean, and choosing multiplication, even though he hates it when I do that to him.” She said the last a little louder, to be sure her brother heard her.

 

Morse smiled. The two of them were very friendly with each other, and played together often – partially influenced by being so isolated perhaps – but they both had a slight competitive streak.

 

“Certainly you should both play equally,” he said seriously, suppressing his amusement. “Sam, if you make things hard for your sister, she will choose the same things for you.”

 

Joan smirked at Sam as he re-emerged to climb onto his chair, and he mock-scowled at her in return. “I wasn’t trying to make things hard. I was  _giving her the opportunity_  to demonstrate her ability.” He gave Morse an impish smile.

 

“How generous of you,” Morse said dryly, raising an eyebrow.

 

The sound of a throat clearing behind him reminded Morse abruptly of the presence of the master of the house, and he felt his blush return at how he had just spoken.

 

“You say I’ve no reason to approve of you, Mr Morse, but my children speak highly of you, and they have come along well in your time here.”

 

Morse could feel the back of his neck burning, and turned his head to see Mr Thursday regarding him curiously. “They are keen pupils, quick to learn,” he answered, and the corner of Mr Thursday’s mouth twitched in a smile.

 

“I’m sure they give you no trouble at all,” Mr Thursday said, tone slightly wry. It surprised a small smile out of Morse in response, and he quickly looked away.


	5. Change and Conversation

The following day lessons resumed as normal after breakfast. Even breakfast felt different with the master in the house – there was richer food and no sign of Sam peeking around the doorway before they were finished.

 

“Everything is changed when the master is here,” Mrs Fairfax agreed. “I’ve hired an extra hand or two from the village; they’ll be arriving this morning. And of course the master has his own routine which we all adapt to.”

 

“Should I plan any changes to my schedule with the children?” Morse asked curiously.

 

“Oh, no. At least, I wouldn’t think so – I’m sure Mr Thursday would tell you if anything was needed. His plans do tend to be spur of the moment, so if he wants to take the children into town you probably won’t know until the day.”

 

“I’ll bear that in mind.” Morse thought for a moment. “Is there anything else that will change now that he is here?”

 

“Many things, but I imagine that your lessons and plans will be largely unaffected,” she said kindly. Then, more hesitantly, “I hope you have not been offended that I haven’t suggested you dine with him. He, well, he normally dines only with the children, so unless he were to say-“

 

“I can understand their wanting to spend time together,” Morse reassured her. “I would not expect such a change even were it not the case.”

 

He was not entirely certain of his place within the household. Certainly a tutor was not quite a servant or a governess, and in many households might eat with the family, but he had always dined with Mrs Fairfax until now and had no experience of what might be expected of him instead.

 

“That is well then. I am sure the master will arrange it as he likes. There is a lot of business here for him to catch up on whenever he’s at Thornfield, so he’ll mostly be closeted with his Steward, Mr Bright.”

 

Morse stared at her in surprise. “I have never met Mr Bright,” he said after a moment.

 

“No, you wouldn’t have. He rarely comes to the hall when the master is away; he stays down in the village and writes his direction to me, or travels to manage Mr Thursday’s other properties.”

 

Morse couldn’t help but mouth the words ‘ _other properties_ ’ in astonishment. He drank his tea, and managed a half-smile in response.

 

“But he’ll be in residence for as long as the master is. So Mr Thursday will normally be in his study, dealing with business, or with the children. Some days I barely see him at all.”

 

The idea of living in the same house as someone and barely seeing them struck Morse as rather odd. Of course, there had been days as a child when he had purposefully avoided his stepmother. And, come to think of it, days when his father didn’t leave his study. Many days. Perhaps it wasn’t so odd after all.

 

\-------------

 

There was an immediate, palpable change in the attitude of the children. Mostly it manifested as distraction; an inattentiveness to a piece of work or too much idle looking out of the window. Morse ignored it in the morning, because he empathised with their excitement in seeing a parent absent so long. When it persisted after lunch, however, he tried a different tactic.

 

“I had hoped that you would be able to show this problem to your father, Sam,” Morse said with a deliberate sigh.

 

Sam perked up, and turned a suddenly hopeful face to him. “Really?”

 

It was a calculated risk – many wealthy parents undoubtedly wouldn’t wish to be bothered with knowing what their children undertook in the schoolroom. Morse had the impression that Mr Thursday would at least be willing to humour the children though – and a little encouragement from their father would go a long way.

 

“Yes,” said Morse firmly. “It is a complicated piece of mathematics for your age, and I think it would be a good way to show your progress.”

 

Sam looked down at the lines he had crossed through – he was always willing to try but sometimes became too easily frustrated with his mistakes. “I could try again,” he volunteered.

 

Morse nodded. “Think it through, and check every step as you go.”

 

He left Sam industriously scribbling, and moved to sit at his desk, leaning his head on his hand as he idly looked through his own notebook. After a minute, Joan rose and came to silently shadow him until he looked up. “Yes, Joan?”

 

She hesitated. “Mr Morse?”

 

The book was placed back on the table, and he gave her his full attention. “Have you finished your exercises?”

 

“No.” She looked back at her desk for a moment, where her workbook lay. “It’s just that – I mean, it’s not that I don’t want to finish them, but…”

 

“If you are having difficulties with one, then we can work through it.”

 

She shook her head, and her huge blue eyes met his pleadingly. “I wondered if there was something… something that I could show father as well?”

 

Morse immediately chided himself for being thoughtless. “Of course, that’s a good idea. You are becoming very proficient at your latest piece on the piano, perhaps you could practice that this afternoon, and then present it to your father this evening.”

 

His reward was a relieved smile, and she quickly moved to the practice instrument in the adjoining room. Morse divided his time between the two of them, and by the end of their lesson Sam had a neatly written script of mathematics, and Joan was confident enough with her recital that Morse felt sure it would go without a hitch.

 

They filed neatly out of the schoolroom, and then broke into a run as soon as they were in the corridor – he heard the thudding of their progress down the hall. Shaking his head, Morse laughed at their antics, and then crossed to look out of the window. It was just past three, and the weather was far more pleasant than the day before. Plenty of time for a walk, then.

 

The ground was still damp from the day before, so he stayed to the main path into the fields. Several times it was so muddy that he had to loop widely around the path, and all of his favourite perches for sitting were too wet today. After he almost accidentally trod in a puddle, he told himself he was being very foolish – he only had two pairs of trousers, and the other pair had needed laundering after the previous day’s excursion in the rain. It would do him no good to get this pair dirty as well.

 

He turned and made his way back, being far more cautious where he placed his feet, and was back at the hall far earlier than he had planned to be. As he approached, he saw the children playing with their father and the dog at the side of the house – throwing a ball and a stick. Morse smiled to himself, pleased to see the children so happy. He hadn’t realised how much of an impact their father’s absence had on their mood until he’d seen the contrast with the way they were now.

 

“Mr Morse, Mr Morse, come and play with us!” Sam called as he drew closer. Mr Thursday and Joan also halted their game, and Pilot bounced energetically around their feet, waiting for play to resume.

 

“Thank you for the offer, but I won’t join you today,” Morse said, but he gave a brief smile to show his pleasure at the invitation. He found himself smiling a lot around the children. It was an expression which had always felt slightly foreign before.

 

Sam made a disappointed face, but was soon diverted by Pilot dashing after something Joan had thrown for him. Mr Thursday did not turn back to the children, however, but watched Morse until he was inside the house. Morse couldn’t decide if the scrutiny made him uncomfortable.

 

After a minute he passed Mr Bright in the corridor – he’d been introduced to the steward at lunchtime. Though the man had been perfectly courteous, Morse had felt like there was a strong air of disapproval emanating from him; Morse wasn’t sure if it was directed at himself in particular or the world in general. He nodded politely to the steward, and Mr Bright gave the slightest rise of his chin in response as he passed.

 

The stairs creaked alarmingly as he made his way up the rickety old staircase to the attics, and from thence up the ladder out onto the roof. The lead surface gleamed dully in the sun, and he crossed to sit upon the stone wall at the side. The gardens and fields stretched endlessly in front of him, and as always he felt a stirring of excitement at all of it being available for him to explore.

 

He dug his book out of his pocket, but in the end spent much of the following hour looking down into the garden, and watching the family at leisure. They threw hoops and walked around the gardens, and Sam and Joan stayed out after their father was summoned away. Joan was thoroughly scolded by the nursemaid after she got the hem of her petticoat muddy, and Morse grinned to think that he’d almost done the same thing himself earlier. He wondered who would have scolded him, had he returned to the house covered in mud. Mr Bright certainly wouldn’t have approved. Mr Thursday, though, Morse thought Mr Thursday would probably have been amused by such a sight.

 

Dinner was now a much more populated meal. In consideration of the new additions to the household, the meal was now served for all the servants and staff together. In addition to Mrs Fairfax, Jim, Shirley and the cook, there was now Mr Bright and Mr Thursday’s valet. The new hired hands nodded their heads shyly at him, but didn’t say a word during the whole meal. Conversation was much more stilted, and Mr Bright looked down his nose at everyone and everything present. Especially Morse.

 

\--------------------

 

“You’re wanted in the sitting room, sir.” Morse looked up from his spot in the library and Shirley curtseyed briefly.

 

“Ah, thank you.” He marked his place and put the book aside, and then followed her as she led the way. It was getting late; he couldn’t imagine what he would be wanted for.

 

“Here is Mr Morse, sir,” Shirley said as they entered the sitting room, and Morse found the Thursday family and Mrs Fairfax gathered within.

 

A large fire was burning in the fireplace – the flames slightly low showing its gradual decline. Mr Thursday sat beside it in a large, high-backed armchair, and from the doorway all Morse could see of him was the glint of the fire on his hair and the line of his arm draped over the arm of the chair.

 

Morse moved into the room, and greeted Mrs Fairfax and the children as he came nearer. Joan stepped in close, eyes bright, and whispered into his ear, “Papa loved my playing. He said it was the most wonderful thing he’d ever heard me play.”

 

Not to be outdone, Sam crowded in. “He looked at my work! He said it was very well done, and that I had advanced a lot! He did say I needed to work on my penmanship though,” he added, a little crestfallen.

 

“Well done, both of you.”

 

“Do I not deserve a greeting in my own house?” Morse glanced up to find Mr Thursday’s dark eyes fixed upon him. He wasn’t sure quite how to characterise the tone of voice – sardonic? Irritated? Amused?

 

“Good evening, sir,” Morse said calmly. “I hope that your day has been pleasant?”

 

“Humph.” Mr Thursday’s gaze flickered to his children, and his look softened. “Well, parts of it. Small, mischievous parts.” The children giggled. “Come and over here.” He indicated a chair opposite him in front of the fire.

 

Morse blinked, taken aback by the abrupt order, but, after a quick touch to Sam’s shoulder, he moved in the direction of the chair.

 

“No, don’t draw the chair further off,” Mr Thursday drawled. Morse halted mid-motion. “Leave it exactly where I placed it.”

 

“As you wish, sir.” He wasn’t shy precisely, but he felt uncomfortably singled out. Morse hovered by the chair for a moment, fingers still clasped over the back of it, and Mr Thursday made a quick gesture of irritation.

 

“Sit down, man, for God’s sake.” The quick glance to the side showed his instant remorse for blaspheming in front of his children, and when his eyes travelled back to Morse’s face a moment later he raised an eyebrow at Morse’s expression. “If you please.”  Mr Thursday heaved a quick sigh, and rubbed at his eyes for a moment. “You’ll have to forgive my manners tonight. I sometimes forget the formalities.”

 

Cautiously, Morse lowered himself into the chair. Sam and Joan came over to stand by their father, and Mrs Fairfax busied herself with something in the background.

 

“My children have both had something to show me tonight.” Mr Thursday reached to taken Joan’s hand, and both of his children beamed at him. He looked across at Morse, and momentarily there was something vulnerable in his eyes. “It was a good thought. Thank you,” he said quietly.

 

“It was nothing, Mr Thursday,” Morse replied, uncomfortable with the praise. “They did it all themselves.”

 

Mr Thursday smiled at him, his eyes creasing with the warmth of it, and it seemed so focused on Morse that Morse felt quite dumb for a moment. “Perhaps,” Mr Thursday said. “A good thought, nonetheless. Now, my Joan tells me that you sing exceedingly well?” Morse felt himself go bright red, and sent a hard look her way. “Sing something.”

 

The tone was commanding, but this was an order that Morse had no trouble disobeying. “I’m afraid Miss Thursday has grossly exaggerated my skill, sir, and I cannot sing for you this evening.”

 

“Cannot, or will not?”

 

Morse dropped his eyes to the floor after a moment, when the intensity of Mr Thursday’s stare grew too much.

 

“Joan, what music does Mr Morse favour when he sings?” Mr Thursday asked.

 

Seemingly aware that she had acted against Morse’s wishes, her tone was apologetic when she answered. “He sings along to my piano tunes sometimes, papa. But it is something called opera which he likes best.”

 

Morse had to close his eyes for a moment to gather strength.

 

“Opera?” Mr Thursday questioned with a look of surprised delight. He was obviously enjoying drawing this out. “My, an unusual choice for a pious young schoolboy. What did they teach at this school of yours?” Morse stayed stubbornly silent. “Surely you should be willing to give a demonstration of such a talent?”

 

“Perhaps Joan could play another piece for you, if you wish to hear music tonight, sir.” Morse met Mr Thursday’s gaze in a clear challenge, setting his jaw. If anything, the master of Thornfield seemed amused by his boldness.

 

“It is not music specifically which interests me, Mr Morse.” He paused for a moment. “Sam said these-“ and here Mr Thursday lifted a small bound volume of notes which Morse had not previously noticed “-were yours?”

 

It was instantly recognisable as Morse’s private work; scraps of poems, half-finished verses and logical riddles. This was perhaps even more of a betrayal than Joan mentioning his singing. He hadn’t been aware that either of the children had ever looked at his scribblings.

 

“Yes, sir,” he murmured finally.

 

Mr Thursday flipped through the pages, stopping on one or two. “Entirely your own work?”

 

Morse glanced at him in surprise. “Yes, sir.”

 

“Ah, hurt your pride, have I? Hmm, you have a good fledgling sense of style. A bit rough around the edges, but the writings show promise and depth.” Mr Thursday contemplated him for a moment. “They are, for a young man of your history, peculiar.”

 

He held the book out to Morse, who leant across the space between them to take it. Tucking the notebook inside his jacket, Morse tried to regain his mental footing. “Do you have much interest in reading, sir?”

 

A hum was his only reply; after a moment Mr Thursday turned to the children and said, “I promised you presents, did I not?”

 

Excited faces shined up at him, and he laughed and directed them to a side table where two boxes sat. The smaller box produced a beautifully carved wooden train, and the comment that Sam ‘should look in the playroom for the rest of it,’ and the larger a froth of white fabric which Morse assumed from Joan’s happy squeal must be a dress.

 

“May I see the rest, father?” Sam asked once they had both come to kiss their father’s cheek.

 

“Yes, yes, go on.” Mr Thursday waved them in the direction of the stairs. “Mrs Fairfax, will you…”

 

“I’ll take them upstairs, sir. Perhaps Joan could try her new dress?”

 

The children were ushered out of the room, and Morse turned his gaze to the fire, listening to the hiss and crack of the logs. He heard the creak of the other chair as the figure opposite him resettled himself, and then saw a dim glow out of the corner of his eye as a pipe was lit.

 

“Now then. I find myself disposed to talk tonight; not to an old woman, or young children – nor Bright, for that matter - but you… We find ourselves together in this house, and I know very little about you. Tell me about yourself.”

 

“What do you wish to know, sir?”

 

Mr Thursday huffed. “You can dispense with the sir, first of all. I wish to know of your opinions, your experiences; who you are.” He gestured sharply with his pipe, and Morse’s eyes followed the motion.

 

Morse stayed silent in response, his thoughts turning inwards. He was not entirely comfortable sharing his thoughts and feelings with anyone, let alone a new acquaintance under such a broad mandate.

 

After a minute, Mr Thursday stirred again. “I’d be inclined to think you a half-wit, but that I’ve seen you can talk well enough.” The master of the house stared at him measuringly. “Not a half-wit then, but… _annoyed_. Ah, too demanding am I? I’ve never been one for fancy phrases, Mr Morse,  and I’m tired of offending because I do not say, ‘if you please’ and ‘would you be so kind,’ in every sentence. Would you agree to dispense with the formalities with me?”

 

“Perhaps,” Morse said uncertainly. “I find formality burdensome, but there is a difference between informality and rudeness.”

 

“Implying my behaviour was the latter?” Thursday said in amused revelation. “Well, do feel free to call me on my rudeness, Mr Morse! But, if we are agreeing to be less formal, then Mr Morse will not do! What did they used to call you, where you were before?”

 

“Morse, sir.”

 

“Morse?” Mr Thursday gave a slow nod. “Morse it is. Then you shall call me Thursday. Now-“

 

The clatter of footsteps and voices in the hall disturbed their conversation, and the children tumbled through the door with exclamations of rapture – Sam with two engines from his new train set and Joan with the dress she twirled to display.

 

Morse admired both in equal measure, and then watched as Joan performed a serviceable, if slightly wobbly, full curtsey for her father.

 

“You look very pretty, Joany. Beautiful. Just like your mother. Just like your mother.” Perhaps Morse was the only one to see the gleam of tears in Thursday’s eyes as he turned his face away, so Morse took it upon himself to stand and declare it long past the children’s bedtime. Yes, they could play more in the morning. No, their father was tired too, so they could not appeal to him to stay longer.

 

Once they had left, Morse turned again to the enigmatical man staring with glazed eyes into the fire. “Sir?”

 

“Hmm? Oh, sorry. My mind wondered for a moment. I-“ He paused for a moment, and seemed to assess Morse. “Their mother - Win, she was called - she…” He trailed off, and seemed unable to finish the sentence.

 

Morse cleared his throat. “I’m sorry that the thought has made you sad, sir.”

 

Thursday laughed, but it was not a happy sound, and trailed off quickly. “Sad, yes. _God, yes_. My beautiful Win, she died so young. Sam never knew her, and Joan was too young to remember anything much. When you have such a love as that, Morse, and you lose it, it _does something_ to a man.”

 

Thursday’s gaze turned entirely inwards, and he seemed lost in thought.

 

“Goodnight, sir,” murmured Morse, and started to withdraw.

 

Thursday roused himself and nodded. “Morse.”


	6. The Library

The next day, true to Mrs Fairfax’s word, Morse almost didn’t see Thursday at all. Lessons and mealtimes passed quickly, and he walked into the woods in the afternoon without encountering a soul. It wasn’t until late in the evening, when he was accustomed to the usually-small household being in bed, that he was startled by the master’s entrance into the library.

 

Thursday seemed equally taken aback to find Morse there, sitting in a comfortable chair with a pile of books, but composed himself swiftly. “Of course,” he said as he came forward, “I should have expected it to be you. I was wondering who had been ransacking my collection.”

 

“I’ve always put the books back exactly where they came from once I have read them.”

 

“Yes, precisely, once you have read them,” Thursday said dryly, and indicated with a wave the stack on the table next to Morse. Morse opened his mouth to apologise, but Thursday quickly added, “You have very interesting choices. Books on poetry, _that_ I suppose I should have expected, but also the insects of South America, the history of the Reformation, an account of the journey to Australia – you do have a wide range of interests, don’t you?”

 

“I find many subjects fascinating.”

 

“And which is your favourite?”

 

Thursday’s tone was genuinely curious, and so Morse took a moment to honestly think through his answer. “I have always been most curious about foreign lands – I would read about them for hours as a child. When I stared at the pictures of tropical forests and great oceans I would picture myself there, and try and imagine what life would be like. I suppose that sounds foolish,” he said sheepishly.

 

“Not foolish, no,” and there was unlooked for understanding in Thursday’s voice. The other man’s eyes were serious and kind, and after a moment he nodded at the chair adjacent to Morse. “May I join you?”

 

“It’s your house,” Morse said unthinkingly.

 

Thursday huffed a laugh. “Ah, but I’ve recently been scolded for my rudeness, and I’m trying to avoid repeating it.”

 

Morse started to make a stumbling apology. “I apologise, sir, I meant no-“

 

“No, no, I much prefer you when you’re being blunt and honest. It’s such a rare trait.”

 

They sat in silence for several minutes, and Morse found it a comfortable one. Usually there was some expectation to fill every pause with small comments - Mrs Fairfax was a particularly good example of that – but Morse had never been very _good_ at it. Here, it seemed, was someone else who was content to just sit in company without always needing to be talking.

 

He’d just taken up his book again when Thursday spoke. “It’s the emptiness here, in the evenings.” Morse glanced at him, but the other man was looking fixedly down at his own interlaced hands.

 

“The emptiness?”

 

Thursday nodded slightly. “Even in the day, now, with the children studying. But at night, when they are abed, this place haunts me.”

 

“Because of your wife?”

 

“Christ.” Thursday blew out a breath, and covered his eyes with one hand for a moment. “Yes, because of my wife. Thinking about my wife being here; thinking about her being gone. Thinking about…”

 

“She must have been a wonderful woman,” Morse said carefully.

 

“My Win was. Oh, she was. It’s been ten years, but I remember her in every room of this house; I feel her here. And then I look up, I turn around, and she’s not there. I’m alone. And there’s… And everything else seems _wrong_.”

 

He seemed so sad, Morse thought. Bereft, as though some part of himself was missing. Which, in a way, Morse supposed it was. Thursday must have loved his wife very much to still be missing her so much after so long.

 

“Thornfield is the first place I’ve ever been where it’s so quiet,” Morse offered after a moment. His words appeared to draw Thursday out of his thoughts, and the man transferred his gaze back to Morse. “Everywhere else I’ve shared a room, a living space; been piled on top of other people and never able to get a moment’s peace. Thornfield is… a refuge.”

 

Thursday contemplated this for a moment, and then sighed. “I fear it never will be that for me.” His eyes lingered on Morse’s features as though he were searching for something. “It usually drives me away before long. I think it’s getting worse as the years go by.”

 

It was on the tip of Morse’s tongue to ask how Thursday could leave the children, but he bit it back. “Well, I’m usually down here in the evening, if it won’t disturb you to have some company.”

 

“No,” Thursday said distractedly, his mind clearly already elsewhere. “It would not disturb me.”

 

\-------------------

 

And so Morse’s days took on a new routine, except that there was too much unpredictability in them to call them routine.

 

He would wake early and take a turn around the garden if it was fair. He and Mrs Fairfax ate breakfast together every day, and she would tell him all of the household happenings. Then lessons, unless Thursday had decided to take his children out for the day. If Morse was lucky he would be notified the night before, but sometimes not even Mrs Fairfax knew and he would arrive to an empty schoolroom. After the first two times, Joan took to leaving him a note.

 

Lunch, sometimes with Mrs Fairfax and the others, sometimes a roll and piece of cheese which he took out to eat by the brook or on the roof. Dinner was always with the staff, as soon as the family had been served.

 

The new faces in the hall continued to provide variety and interest, but also disturbed Morse’s peace.

 

Mr Bright particularly, seemed to always be looming in the background when Morse was moving through the hall, or sitting in a quiet spot. The first time he had entered the library to find Morse, Morse had had to vigorously defend his right to be there, and finally announced that the master of the house had outright given him permission. Clearly Mr Bright felt that he should confine himself to the schoolroom.

 

Ironically Morse’s appearance had become a point of issue with Mr Bright after all. Morse’s two suits, which he had purchased for his time at Oxford, were not up to the steward’s standards. Unfortunately Morse had grown a little taller in the last year or two, which he hadn’t noticed until Mr Bright drew attention to the length of his trousers. The last point was embarrassing, but Morse had no money for new clothes. He couldn’t imagine anybody at Thornfield would care – certainly not the children, and why would Thursday or Mrs Fairfax give any consequence to what Morse was wearing? No, it was only Mr Bright, and Mr Bright’s standards, which were offended. Still, Morse made a note to purchase some new clothes when he received his salary.

 

It was Thursday himself who caused the most changes to Morse’s days.

 

Not just reading together in the library, although that became a regular habit, but running into Thursday on Morse’s rambling walks. The first time, he’d been sitting on a smoothed down tree stump, head in hand as he read a book on a grey and chilly afternoon.

 

“Hello there,” a familiar voice had called, and Morse had torn his eyes away from the page to find Thursday emerging from the copse to his left.

 

“Hullo,” he replied, pleasantly surprised. “I thought you would be closeted with Bright all day.”

 

“A man needs some fresh air, or he will run mad!”

 

Morse looked behind him for the children, but saw no sign of them. Correctly guessing his thoughts, Thursday shrugged. “Apparently I am no longer a novelty, and playing with their toys was far more important than going for a walk in the cold.”

 

An involuntary smile twitched Morse’s lips. He’d come to understand the way that Thursday spoke, a strange mixture of jest and truth conveyed with sarcastic humour. Where at first he had been taken aback by some of the things the master of the house had said, now he knew the kindness and wit of the man, and could better read his intent.

 

“It is getting warmer, sir, it will be summer before you know it.”

 

“Hmm, perhaps. The English version of summer would not be mistaken as such by anyone who had travelled outside the country.”

 

“What would you call it then, sir?”

 

“Soggy.”

 

“I can only hope that this year you will be pleasantly surprised.”

 

“Hmm, I hope that every year. Walk with me?” So Morse put away his book and joined Thursday on his ramble.

 

It happened again, and then at least once every few days after that. Morse found it an incredible coincidence that Thursday kept running into him, because he always took different paths and stopped at a random spot. After a couple of weeks, it occurred to him that that might be the reason that he _only_ saw Thursday every few days. Perhaps the man enjoyed the company on his walks.

 

After that he made a point of casually mentioning where he was planning to walk the next day – that the bluebells were particularly beautiful in such and such a spot, that there was an excellent view from a certain hill. Sure enough, the regularity of Thursday’s interruptions increased, and Morse found himself quite content with the extra time walking quietly together or talking.

 

He’d never had a friend quite like Thursday.

 

Certainly, there was still the distinction of rank between them. But Thursday’s desire for informality led to their conversations being that of equals. And here was someone with similar tastes and interests to Morse, who had great experience and was widely travelled; whom Morse could ask endless questions about the world and never seemed anything but content to answer them.

 

He was cynical, though, and he had his moods. Some days as they walked he would maintain a cold silence, and hit the greenery with a stick as they passed. Some evenings in the library Morse would enter to find him deep in thought with a brooding expression, and barely willing to speak. Some afternoons in the garden, Morse would hear him snap at his children, though he was quickly remorseful and reassuring.

 

No, Thursday’s character remained somewhat of an enigma to Morse.

 

It was one such an evening that Morse took a candle into the library at perhaps ten o’clock, and found Thursday seated a little away from a faded fire, an open book resting abandoned on his thigh.

 

He hesitated with one hand still on the door, able to read the man’s mood easily from his face. “Would you rather be alone tonight, sir?”

 

“What?” Thursday roused himself, and visibly tried to shake off his melancholy. “No, no, sit down. I’d be glad of the company; my head is going in circles.”

 

Morse crossed to his usual chair beside Thursday, and shifted a small pile of books off it and onto the table. He sat stiffly with a muffled groan – he had gone on too long a walk earlier and been surprised by a bout of snow. “Snow in April,” he mumbled to himself, disgruntled, and Thursday cast him an unimpressed look. “Is it something I can help with? Your circles?” he clarified when Thursday looked askance.

 

“Mmm? Oh, no, it’s an old problem.” He eyed Morse for a moment. “Perhaps I can put a hypothetical situation to you.”

 

“Of course, sir,” Morse said.

 

“I – no, that will never do. Say there was a young man, bitterly disappointed by life. Lost.” Thursday went quiet for a moment, and stroked his forefinger over his lips. “Say he committed an… error; that he was taken advantage of while he was in this state. Nothing illegal, just an error.” Morse nodded to show that he was following. “And years passed, long, miserable years – even though there were good things in his life.” The children, Morse thought. “But still, the consequences of the error remained. Finally, he sees a way to be happy again. Would he be justified in ignoring society and convention to do so? To ignore the law if it will hurt no one else?”

 

Thursday looked to Morse now, keen eyes seeking out an answer, but Morse wasn’t sure what answer to give. “I’m not sure I fully understand the case, sir,” he admitted. “But I think that there are few laws which can be trespassed without injuring _someone_.”

 

It was not the answer the other man wished, he could tell, but nor did Thursday seem surprised. “Perhaps you are right,” he muttered. “But still…”

 

“Without knowing more of the matter, it is hard to judge it accurately.”

 

Thursday smiled at him then, a small, fond smile which caused a bewildering lurching sensation in Morse’s chest. “No, this is one puzzle of logic I shall have to solve on my own, Morse. Having said which, I encountered a riddle which I think you might like, let me test you on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit short and interlude-y, in preparation for more plot and drama in the next chapter. It's going a bit more slowly now, but I've still got lots of ideas swarming in my head :)


	7. Truth and Fire

The next two significant events in Morse’s time at Thornfield happened in such quick succession, and with such an impact, that Morse was left reeling.

 

The first happened when he was called into the master’s study on a Wednesday morning at the beginning of May. Thursday looked quite grave as he asked Morse to be seated, and waited before sitting himself. It felt odd to have the barrier of the desk between them; not that Morse had come into the study often, but they were usually standing or sitting together. The distance felt artificially imposed, and lent a sternness to proceedings.

 

Then again, the look on Thursday’s face was rather stern also.

 

“What can I do for you, sir?” Morse asked when Thursday showed no inclination to speak.

 

“You said you studied at Oxford,” Thursday said abruptly.

 

“Did I, sir?”

 

“ _No_ , actually, you’ve never spoken of it.” And Thursday’s momentarily dry tone let him know that it had been noted. “Mrs Fairfax informed me.”

 

Morse waited for a moment to see if an actual question was to be forthcoming, but Thursday merely stared at him expectantly. “Yes, sir.”

 

“And you were accepted here on that understanding?”

 

Dread pooled in Morse’s stomach. “Yes, sir,” he managed in an even tone.

 

“Imagine my surprise then, to hear from Mr Bright that you yourself had been heard saying you did not complete your degree!”

 

It had been yesterday, Morse thought; he’d been talking with Thursday’s valet. The man had asked if Morse had been to Oxford; Morse had said he’d studied there. When asked how long he’d stayed in Oxford for, Morse had said only a year…

 

“Well, anything to say for yourself?” Thursday’s harsh words brought Morse out of his reverie.

 

Morse lifted his chin defiantly. “I have not lied to you, sir. I never said that I completed my degree to any of you, and the reference from my tutor was provided without falsehood.”

 

“Not lied, eh? That’s sophistry, and you know it! A lie of omission. Of all the people on the planet I thought I could trust to be honest with me, Morse…”

 

And now it was the twist of guilt which Morse felt bitterly in his stomach. He had certainly never meant to deceive Thursday, and never imagined that such a revelation would make the man feel so deeply betrayed.

 

“I did not mean to be _dis_ honest, sir. I just did not wish to speak of it, and you seemed happy with my performance, so-“

 

Thursday waved him off. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve been doing an excellent job; I could not ask for better. And your qualifications – perhaps it would not have mattered, if I had known. But to have Bright – _Bright!_ – come and announce this to me, and me so transparently unaware of it…” Thursday sucked in a deep breath, and let it out in a sigh. “He’s strongly suggested that you be let go.”

 

It was the same feeling of suddenly losing the ground under his feet that Morse had felt when he was told he was to be sent down. “Let go?” he mumbled, fighting the urge to throw up.

 

Leave Thornfield? Leave his home?

 

“Well, what am I supposed to say? What grounds have you given me for trust, here?” Thursday steamed irately.

 

The winded feeling subsided, and ire of his own rose in response. “I’m a good tutor,” Morse said hotly. “What grounds do you have for trust? You _know_ me!”

 

“Do I? I thought I did?”

 

“Not knowing every detail of my past doesn’t make you comprehend my character any less! I had a stuffed bear named Thimble when I was very small – there, has your knowledge of me been turned on its head again?”

 

He stood there indignantly, trembling, feeling like he would fight to his last breath to stay, and was completely taken aback when Thursday let out a startled chuckle.

 

“Sir?”

 

“ _Oh_ , that’s too much. Thimble. Why Thimble?”

 

“There was an incident with a needle when he was – it doesn’t _matter_!” Morse cried, exasperated. “What does any of it matter? I would have told you if you’d asked, but you never did and I didn’t-“

 

“Alright, lad, alright.” Thursday sighed. “I’ve made a right mess of this. Sit down.” And Morse belatedly realised he’d risen to his feet at some point. “That’s better. Of course you won’t be let go – I’m sorry I said it. I was just – I was so angry when Bright came to try and hold this over my head. And angrier because I hadn’t known it, or I’d never have let the little toad of a man get the jump on me.”

 

Morse stared blankly at him, surprised by his outright disrespect towards Mr Bright, the more so because Thursday had never seemed to have a problem with him before – beyond thinking him a bit hidebound.

 

Then the rest of what Thursday had said slowly sunk in, and it felt like ropes wrapped too tightly around his chest had suddenly been released.

 

“I am sorry, sir,” he said after a moment. “I certainly didn’t mean to put you in an awkward position. Honestly, I assumed my tutor had written something of it in his reference.”

 

“No,” Thursday drawled. “I checked it myself, last night.”

 

Morse nodded, and looked down at his hands. He’d never argued with Thursday before, except on matters of theology, and astronomy, and nature, and man, and… But never about anything personal.

 

“How old _are you_?” Thursday suddenly asked, as though the thought had only just struck him. “You were how old when you went to that institution of yours?”

 

“Ten, sir.”

 

“Ten. And you were there for seven years – see, I remember – and at Oxford for another after that. But that would mean you are only eighteen?” He looked at Morse in confused enquiry.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“I would hardly have guessed your age,” Thursday muttered, as if to himself.

 

“Did you think I was older?” Morse asked, curious.

 

“Yes. And no.” Thursday paused to consider him. “Sometimes you seem very innocent and naïve, but there is a confidence to your manners and bearing. I had assumed…”

 

Morse flushed slightly at being described as ‘innocent and naïve,’ but could hardly gainsay it. “How old are you, sir, if you don’t mind my asking?”

 

“Old enough,” Thursday said, voice slightly sharp.

 

“And how were you when you were my age?”

 

Thursday sighed again, and rubbed at his brow. “Oh, I was your equal, Morse. Quite your equal.”

 

“Sir?”

 

“That’s enough for today, I feel. Unless you’re hiding any other secrets you feel the need to confide?” Thursday said wryly.

 

Morse’s lips twitched in an awkward smile. “No, sir. Sorry, sir.”

 

“Enough with the sirs,” Thursday scowled mock-irritably. “Go on then, out with you. Shouldn’t you be teaching the children at this time? Hmm?”

 

Morse shook his head in amusement, and stood. He found his legs unexpectedly shaky for a moment – apparently slower to recover from his near-dismissal than the rest of him – and leaned against the desk for a moment as he pretended to read the title of a book on it.

 

“Have a good day, sir.”

 

“Morse.”

 

\----------------

 

His sleep was restless that night, haunted by his turbulent emotions. Thoughts swirled around endlessly in his head – how much he cared for Thursday’s good opinion of him, how attached he was to Thornfield, to the children. University, for all that he had only left it five or six months before, seemed an age ago – another lifetime.

 

He was happy here. Truly happy. Whatever restlessness he had thought he still felt when he arrived, it was no longer in evidence. He had never felt so sure of the rightness of his place somewhere, so sure that this was where he was meant to be.

 

And he could be here. Thursday would not send him away. Would not send him…

 

A noise woke him in the blink of an eye – though he could not have said what the noise was. He lay still in the darkness, squinting up at the bed frame in the dim moonlight coming through the curtains.

 

There it was again. The creak of a floorboard, the squeak of a doorknob turning. Heart suddenly pounding, Morse turned his head to look at his door, and saw the knob slowly rotate.

 

He hadn’t locked it. He never locked his door.

 

The knob went still, and then was suddenly released. Morse let out a sharp breath, then immediately held it again as the knob once again started to slowly turn.

 

He slid out of bed as silently as possible, and groped on the nightstand for something of use. His fingers found the candlestick, which had a heavy metal base, and he carefully moved towards the door gripping it firmly in his hands.

 

“Hello?” It should have been a loud demand, but his voice came out a shrunken whisper. He cleared his throat. “Hello?”

 

The rattling at the doorknob stopped just as Morse reached it, and he stared fixedly at the door for some moments before he could convince himself to stir again.

 

Groping in the dark he found the tinderbox, and coaxed the candle into flame. The light cast strange and uneasy shadows on the walls of his bedchamber, perfectly normal objects seeming monstrous, and Morse chided himself for having too much imagination.

 

He slipped a dressing gown on over his nightclothes, and, holding the candle aloft in one hand, carefully cracked the door open.

 

Nothing.

 

He was being ridiculous, surely, except that he had seen and heard someone at the door. It could be burglars. The children could be in danger.

 

Spurred on by that thought, he stepped out into the corridor. “Hello?” He headed in the direction of the family rooms, and suddenly heard a low, devilish laugh. “Hello?”

 

The laugh came again – it was the same one which he had heard in the attic before – and sent shivers running down his spine. He realised as his feet grew chilled that he was still barefoot, but he had come too far to turn back now.

 

He rounded the corner, and his gaze caught immediately on a lone, lit candle sitting on the floor of the corridor. Reaching it in four or five strides, he stooped low and snuffed it out, and strained his ears again. He didn’t hear anything else, but someone had been here.

 

The smell of smoke stung his nostrils, and he pinched the candle wick again before being struck by the realisation that such a small candle wouldn’t produce that much smoke. Almost unwillingly, his eyes were drawn to the gap under the door to the nearest room, and the slow, grey curls of smoke which were gathering there.

 

He slammed through the door in five seconds, took in the scene before him in two, and charged headfirst into the blaze.

 

Thursday was lying supine on the bed, a deep frown creasing his face, the flask of wine to the side explaining why he hadn’t woken. Though Morse rather felt a flask of wine was no excuse when _your bed was on fire_! 

 

“Sir! Mr Thursday! Wake up, sir, wake up!” Morse cried, the heat coming from the flames licking up the corners of the four poster pushing him back. Luckily the centre of the bed was so far untouched, but that wouldn’t be the case for long. “For God’s sake, sir _, wake up_!”

 

He backtracked to the dressing table, grabbing the jug of water there and dashing forward to heave it over the bed. It would do nothing against the blaze, of course, but Morse’s aim planted the wave of water squarely in Thursday’s face.

 

Thursday woke immediately, spluttering. “What in the devil’s name-“

 

Thankfully quick to react to the situation, Thursday rolled to the side and off the bed, and was up on his feet again in an instant.

 

“Are you hurt, sir?” called Morse from the other side of the bed?

 

“I’m fine,” Thursday snapped irritably. “Help me!” He started pulling down the drapes at the corners of the bed, stamping them against the ground and covering them with bedding to damp out the fires. Morse quickly followed suit, struggling to handle the burning cloth without catching alight himself.

 

Soon the last drape was down, the last fire out. Morse and Thursday stood over the ruins of the bedding, coughing and trying to catch their breath.

 

Morse stumbled to the window and unlatched it, throwing it wide and greedily sucking in the clean, fresh air from outside. Seconds later he felt a presence behind him as Thursday joined him, crowding in close in order to breathe the night air and clear the smoke from his lungs.

 

“What in God’s name happened?” Thursday asked after a moment.

 

Morse’s shoulder brushed against the master’s chest as he turned slightly. The unexpected warmth slowed his response. “I don’t know. I woke up when someone tried my door – I followed the noise and found a candle outside your door. Then I saw the smoke. You could have died, sir!”

 

“Did you see anything else?” Thursday demanded, and then a second later, more urgently, “Are you hurt? Burned?”

 

“No, I – I’m alright, sir. Thank you.”

 

Thursday’s hand came up to grip his shoulder for a moment, as though to reassure himself that Morse was intact. “Good,” he whispered. “Good.”

 

Morse looked back into the room, now lit only by the candle he had left on the dresser. The smoke was clearing, but the room was dominated by the blackened, burnt wreck of the bed.

 

“I should get Mrs Fairfax.”

 

“What? No, what can she do?”

 

“But-“

 

“No, Morse, and that’s an end to it.”

 

“But… Who would do such a thing, sir?”

 

Thursday’s face, when Morse glanced back to it, was dark and forbidding. “I must go and deal with this, Morse. Here-“ He fetched a thick fur coat from the wardrobe, and came back to stand beside Morse. Before Morse could reach out a hand to take it, Thursday gently draped it around him, enveloping him in warm and a comforting smell Morse was embarrassed to realise must belong to Thursday himself.

 

“Thank you, sir,” he mumbled, cheeks instantly stained red at the closeness of the contact.

 

“Wait for me here, Morse.” Thursday guided him backwards into the nearest chair, walking with his hands gripping Morse’s forearms so that Morse couldn’t help but follow. “Don’t move from that chair. Promise me.”

 

Morse was still too stunned by the events of the last few minutes to protest. “Yes, sir,” he replied automatically, and then Thursday was out of the room in a whirlwind of motion.

 

Left alone, Morse tucked his cold bare feet up onto the chair and under the fur coat. This was possibly the most surreal situation he had ever found himself in; sitting in the master’s bedroom after it had been set on fire, wrapped in Thursday’s coat. He shivered, despite the warmth of the fur, and once he started he couldn’t stop.

 

“Morse? _Morse?_ Can you hear me, Morse?”

 

Thursday’s face slowly swum into focus in front of him, and Morse parted his lips to try and reply only to hear his teeth chatter.

 

“Christ, you’ve had a shock,” he heard, and tried to shake his head. “Don’t be stubborn, Morse. Here, take some wine.”

 

A glass was pressed against his lips. “I don’t drink, sir,” he croaked, and pushed the glass away.

 

“Very commendable,” Thursday commented dryly. “Now get this down you.”

 

The glass touched his lips again, and a rough hand cupped Morse’s jaw. A thumb stroked gently across his cheek, and the touch was somehow overwhelming. Morse closed his eyes, and took a sip of the wine.

 

“That’s it,” Thursday murmured. “And another.”

 

It was a strange taste, rich and heavy. Wrinkling his nose, Morse wasn’t sure that he liked it. This time he reached up to push the glass away more confidently. “I was just cold, sir.”

 

“Of course you were.”

 

Opening his eyes, Morse found Thursday kneeling on the ground beside him, leaning in close. His hand still rested quietly against Morse’s face, and Morse fought not to lean into the warmth of it.

 

Morse wasn’t sure another human being had touched him with such tenderness since his mother had died.

 

“I’m alright, sir, really.”

 

Seeming to take that as his cue, Thursday pulled back, and Morse felt as though a private pocket of warm air had evaporated and left him in the cold again.

 

“What – what happened, sir? Where did you go just now? Who did this, who tried to kill you?”

 

Thursday stood, turning his back to Morse for a moment. “You said you saw a candle?”

 

“Yes, sir, and I heard a laugh. A very particular laugh.”

 

Thursday hesitated, and then glanced round to Morse’s face again. “You’ve heard that laugh before, I’ll wager.”

 

Morse nodded. “There is a servant here, Grace Poole. I’ve heard her laugh like that, in the attic.”

 

“Yes, Grace Poole.” Thursday closed his eyes, and a weary, pained look came over his face. “I have dealt with the matter Morse. It was an accident.” He stressed the word. “I’ll thank you not to mention this to anyone else.”

 

Morse nodded again, slightly more warily this time. He imagined she’d been locked up for the night, and would be tried in the morning. Or perhaps the master would just dismiss her, although Morse was convinced this could not have been an accident. Not when the only thing set alight had been the master’s bedclothes.

 

“You should get back to your room.” Thursday sighed. “I’ll sleep on the library sofa until morning.”

 

The master turned to contemplate his bed, and Morse stood carefully, reluctantly unwrapping the warm coat. He draped it over the back of the chair, and took a step towards the door.

 

Thursday jerked towards him as though he had forgotten Morse was there. “You’re leaving?” he asked, sounding slightly rough and betrayed. The tone pulled at Morse’s heartstrings, and he hesitated mid-step.

 

“You said I should go, sir?” He waited a moment, but Thursday uttered nothing further, and so Morse moved again towards the door.

 

“You saved my life tonight,” Thursday said quietly, almost to himself. Morse halted again. “Don’t think I’ll forget it. Not ever.”

 

“It was nothing, sir,” Morse murmured, a little uncomfortable.

 

“ _Nothing_.” Thursday let out a muted, dark laugh. “Nothing, he says, but still…” In two long strides he was standing beside Morse, and his dark eyes were burning as they gazed at him. “I owe you a debt.”

 

“No, sir,” Morse said strongly. “There is no debt. I was happy to be of use.”

 

“At least shake hands with me before you leave.”

 

Thursday held out his hand, and when Morse took it the other man covered Morse’s hand with both of his own. He squeezed, very gently, and ran his fingertips over Morse’s knuckles. Morse found himself unaccountably holding his breath.

 

“Thank you, Morse. You’ve done so much for this family; rescued all of us, in a way, these past few months. And now…”

 

“I’m glad I woke, sir.” Morse tried to draw back, but the grip on his hands tightened a little.

 

“You _will_ go?” Thursday asked hoarsely.

 

“I’m cold, sir,” Morse murmured half-nonsensically, though it was true enough. His toes were already going numb.

 

“Cold? Well, go then.” But he still didn’t let go of Morse’s hand, and the slight pull he was exerting swayed Morse towards him. There was a terrible, exciting energy in the moment which was foreign to everything Morse knew.

 

“I think I hear Mrs Fairfax stir,” he said, and after the barest second Thursday’s hold on his hand relaxed.

 

“Go on then. Sleep well, Morse.”

 

\--------------

 

The remembered feel of Thursday’s hands upon his, of his fingers gently touching Morse’s face, eventually cradled Morse’s overexcited mind to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm struggling with keeping them sounding like Morse and Thursday rather than becoming all Regency - I have to go back and rewrite every scene to make them less formal and use contractions. I'm worried I've lost my Endeavour voice!


	8. Guests at Thornfield

Instead of going out into the garden when he rose in the morning, Morse stopped by Thursday’s room to see if he could be of any assistance. The door was wide open, and when he peered inside he found two servants changing the bedding.

 

And Grace Poole, sitting by the window sewing.

 

It felt like his blood froze in his veins. How could she be allowed to roam freely, after her actions of last night? Surely it wasn’t safe to allow her anywhere near the master’s chambers?

 

He slipped inside the doorway and observed her for a moment. There had never been much chance for him to study her, since she remained almost entirely closeted in her attic rooms. She was a stout, powerfully built woman with ruddy cheeks – likely from all of the wine Mrs Fairfax said she drank – and squinting eyes. She sat humming to herself now, as though she had no reason to be more ashamed or guilty than the other servants present!

 

“What happened here?” he asked disingenuously as he moved to stand beside her. She glanced up, took him in, and then turned back to her work with a decided lack of interest.

 

“Master left the candle burning. Set fire to his bed.”

 

Morse opened his mouth, thought better of it, and took a moment to glance around the room again instead. Only when he could trust his voice to remain no more than mildly inquisitive did he say, “I wonder nobody heard anything.”

 

“Indeed. But then, there’s not too many rooms nearby. The children sleep deeply, and Mrs Fairfax is a little hard of hearing.” She paused, and regarded him over her sewing. “You sleep just around the corner don’t you, sir? Did you happen to hear anything?”

 

Morse wavered, but the thought of letting her get away with this ridiculous behaviour weighed heavily upon him. “I did,” he said, and noted the indication of suppressed alarm on her face.

 

“You did not happen to go out into the corridor, and see what was happening?”

 

On the other hand, if she were in the habit of setting fire to bedrooms at night, it was perhaps better not to draw her attention while she roamed freely.

 

“No, I locked my door. And I shall lock it in the future,” he added as an extra deterrent.

 

“Very wise,” she said approvingly. “Can’t be too careful.”

 

It was too much to be borne. He left the chamber and hurried down to meet Mrs Fairfax.

 

“Oh, just in time for breakfast, Mr Morse. I looked out of the window for you, but didn’t see you in the garden. It looks quite fine today, I think that-“

 

“Have you seen Mr Thursday?” he interrupted her in his haste.

 

She looked askance at him. “The master? Oh, you haven’t heard then. He rode off first thing this morning to visit some neighbours on the other side of Millcote.”

 

“Left? What time will he return?”

 

Now her gaze turned slightly pitying. “Ah, you are still not used to his ways. I do not think he will return today, nor any day soon. He’s ever been like that, off and away when it suits him.”

 

“But what about the children?”

 

Not for the first time, Morse thought that it could have been the children’s rooms that had been set on fire last night – and they would have had far less chance of escape. He didn’t think Thursday would ever leave his children in an unsafe situation if he could help it.

 

“Oh, he’ll have told them this morning. Don’t you worry about it, Mr Morse, there’s no point trying to keep track of his comings and goings.”

 

Morse quieted, trying to reconcile matters within his own head instead.

 

Someone, almost certainly Grace Poole, had set the master’s bedclothes on fire last night. Thursday had not wished anyone to know. Grace Poole did not appear to have been confined or punished in any way.

 

The only conclusion Morse could come to was that she must have some kind of hold over him, perhaps something which she knew which he was desperate to protect. Or she might have threatened the children? But the logical reasoning broke apart there, and Morse didn’t know how to make the disparate parts of the picture fit together.

 

He clung to the sure-fire knowledge that Thursday wouldn’t have left his children in danger. Therefore he must have done something, ensured in some way, that there would be no repeat of the incident.

 

It was enough, for the moment, but Morse resolved to watch over Sam and Joan as closely as possible.

 

\---------------

 

The children were less dejected than Morse expected; obviously they too were used to Thursday’s comings and goings. The main reason for their cheerfulness, however, was  _where_ their father had gone.

 

“We know some of the families from that side of town,” explained Joan. “Some of them have children only a little older than us, and we’ve been introduced or met them in town. And Papa is great friends with some of the grown-ups; he always comes back more cheerful.”

 

“And some of them,” confided Sam in a whisper, “are very handsome.”

 

“Sam!” his sister scolded, but she giggled a little, and Morse thought she probably agreed.

 

\---------------

 

“The children said Mr Thursday has many friends in that part of Oxfordshire,” Morse casually mentioned the next morning.

 

“Hmm? Oh, yes, There are old ties there – he’s known some of them since he was a child.”

 

Morse gave a half-smile, and tried to determine the best way of phrasing his next enquiry. Luckily he didn’t have to.

 

“There’s the DeBryn family, of course, and the Jakes’. Peter Jakes is rumoured to be an extremely handsome lad.” Mrs Fairfax said the last in a particularly knowing tone, and Morse blinked in surprise.

 

He’d never heard Thursday’s name linked with anyone else’s, but it would of course make sense for the master to remarry – especially when he himself had confided to Morse that he felt unhappy and lonely. And then the children would have a second parent again – someone to stay with them while Thursday was off on business. Or, more likely, once he had a wife or husband he might stay home more.

 

It would be a good thing, both for the children and the master, Morse reflected. He felt a little unsettled at the thought of such a change, but put that down to uncertainty over how his own place at Thornfield would be affected. He had grown very used, over the last few months, to his position as voice of respected authority with the children. To his walks and conversations with Thursday.

 

But certainly he wished the master happy, and to have companionship. He would hope that Thursday found it then, with these friends he was staying with.

 

\-----------------

 

The house was quieter again without Thursday in residence; Mr Bright had disappeared exactly as Mrs Fairfax said he would. The valet had travelled with Thursday, of course, and the two hired hands dismissed for the moment with the offer of further work in the future.

 

It was back to he and Mrs Fairfax dining alone, and an increase in time spent with the children as they resorted to him as a potential playmate.

 

He and Mrs Fairfax heard nothing official for a month. Their news came through the children, as Thursday sent a letter a week to Sam. Sam would read the letters with his sister, and they would both pass on tidbits to Morse when they stopped lessons for a cup of tea. Morse would then pass on any salient information to Mrs Fairfax, but kept much more to himself that he didn’t think Thursday would have wanted discussed by his staff.

 

One of the things he kept to himself was that Thursday frequently mentioned a Peter Jakes, saying that he was an excellent rider and very spirited.

 

\------------------

 

One day, after perhaps three or four weeks, a letter came for Mrs Fairfax.

 

“Oh my goodness,” she exclaimed as she scanned it. “Oh, my.” After another few seconds she rose to her feet in some haste, abandoning her luncheon.

 

“What is it?” Morse asked curiously, putting his own cutlery down.

 

“The master is to come back! With a whole company of guests! Oh, I must hire additional help again. And we shall have to ready so many of the rooms. I shall-“ She rushed out of the room still muttering to herself.

 

Morse remained behind, playing idly with the handle of his fork. Presumably Thursday was to bring some of the people he had been staying with, some of these fine neighbours. Morse had to admit that he was curious to see them, and to see the master’s interactions with them. What was Thursday like among company of the same consequence? Was he still gruff and wry, or did he change to smart manners and winning charm?

 

How different would he be, with those he wanted to please?

 

\--------------

 

The excitement of the children could barely be contained over the next day – not only their father but also guests! It seemed that the hall hadn’t hosted a party of people, or, in fact, anyone at all, in more years than could be recalled – “Likely since the master’s wife died,” Mrs Fairfax had confided.

 

Sam ran all over the house, trying to help but mostly hindering, and Joan was soon swayed to his games; guessing which guest would be in which room, how many there would be and who would come.

 

The answers to these questions (well, aside from which room they were put in) was eight, mostly composed of the members of the Jakes and DeBryn families which Mrs Fairfax had mentioned. There were Mr and Mrs Jakes, Peter Jakes, and his younger sister; she was one of the children Sam and Joan had mentioned. Mr and Mrs Debryn, and their son Maximillian. And finally a wealthy widow, Mrs Frazil.

 

Sam and Joan were delighted, not just at the presence of another playmate but with the whole party and the possible entertainments it offered. They speculated about the games that would be played: charades and table games and bowls on the lawn, and what the ladies and gentlemen would wear, and how much Miss Jakes might have grown.

 

Morse was introduced to all of the guests on the first evening, when Thursday requested his presence at dinner. He’d never eaten in the large formal dining room before; in fact it hadn’t been used by anyone in the entire length of his stay here. The table was so long that if you were sat at one end of it you would only distantly be able to see the person at the other, the food so grand that Morse thought (actually, knew) that cook had to have been slaving over the menu for the last two days, and all of the guests so finely dressed and presented that Morse estimated they had been slaving over their own appearances for roughly the same amount of time.

 

He found himself unaccountably nervous over which fork to use, but memories of formal dinners at Oxford carried him through.

 

The majority of his conversation was with the two people to either side of him; Mrs Jakes to his left and Max DeBryn to his right. Mrs Jakes seemed interested in little that he had to say once she found out he was merely the tutor, but Max, as he asked Morse to call him, turned out to be an unexpected boon. He was a university man, and Morse discovered him to have similar taste in books; they spent some time in lively debate before being gently chastised by Mrs DeBryn for monopolising the conversation at their end of the table.

 

They were a lively party in the following week. In the mornings Thursday frequently rode out with Peter Jakes, and was often in his company the rest of the time too. Morse supposed it must be enjoyable for him to have more entertaining company to talk to again, after the months of quiet at the Hall. He couldn’t help viewing the pair’s increasing intimacy ruefully though, both with regards to the way he himself missed his exchanges with Thursday and to Thursday’s feelings.

 

Thursday didn’t love the young man, Morse was sure of it. Jakes was brash and bright and confident in himself, but his comments and barbs often produced a twitch of contempt in Thursday’s lips rather than an honest smile. Thursday’s attentions, in kind, were shallow and lacking in feeling or substance; Morse had no idea what the two of them were like when they were alone, of course. Still, there was a general expectation among the party, and amongst the staff, that they would marry. The looming weight of it dragged over every interaction, and became almost suffocating.

 

Morse would have been happy had Thursday found someone that could relieve his loneliness, who would be a true lover and companion, but when he pictured Thursday and Jakes together all his mind showed him were sharp words and glaring silences. It was not a comforting thought.

 

In order to take his mind off it he had attempted to spend more time with the rest of the party. The elder Jakes’ looked down their noses at him, and he barely saw the youngest, but Mrs Frazil and the DeBryn party were interesting and friendly. Mrs Frazil was sharp as a tack with her observations about fellow members of their company, sometimes to the point of discomforting Morse. Mr DeBryn had travelled the world extensively, and his stories were almost as good as Thursday’s, though he didn’t have the same dry wit. Max had humour enough to make up for it in abundance though, and plentiful tales of his own. He had originally been a younger son, and served as an officer in the army after his time at university; a history Morse knew Thursday shared. Upon his elder brother’s death Max had returned to learn the estate and prepare to manage it. From the way he spoke, Morse got the impression that Max rather missed the simpler life of the army, despite all of its horrors.

 

Morse got to know him better when he encountered Max in the library there on the third night. “Oh, hello, this is where you’ve disappeared to. You favour the same refuge as me, then?”

 

Morse nodded slightly stiffly, and tried to pay attention to his book as Max slowly wandered the shelves. Morse had found that Thursday no longer frequented the library late at night since his return, preferring drinks and smoking with the other gentlemen. It felt strange to have this sanctuary, which Morse had unconsciously regarded as his and Thursday’s, invaded by a new presence.

 

 

“This is new. And this. Clearly Thursday’s been going through a modern poetry phase.” Morse glanced up to see Max take his glasses off and clean them with his handkerchief. “I wouldn’t have thought that would have been to his taste,” DeBryn muttered softly to himself.

 

Unexpected heat rose to Morse’s cheeks as he remembered the books arriving two weeks before, while Thursday was away. He had spoken about the authors with Thursday not long before, and couldn’t help be flattered by their appearance.

 

“Perhaps he knows that Peter likes that sort of thing?” Max continued, and Morse’s heart slammed down into his stomach.

 

“I’m sure Thursday is accommodating towards all of his guest’s tastes.” His words came out a little shorter than he meant them to.

 

Max glanced at him. “Thursday? Accommodating? Have you met the man? No, his library is his sanctuary, he wouldn’t usually populate it with books for other people’s entertainment.”

 

Morse hummed noncommittally, and stared fixedly at his book.

 

\-----

 

Over the next few days he attempted a little conversation with Peter Jakes, but the man didn’t strike him as the type to enjoy poetry. Morse made casual reference to some of his favourites one evening when they had separated from the ladies after dinner, and Peter snorted derisively when he realised what Morse was referring to.

 

“Lord, of course you’d be one to always have your nose in a book. Don’t suppose you’ve got anything better to do. I’ve always been more one for action myself.” He winked at Morse, who felt his own face twist in an awkward expression.

 

“I must have misunderstood then; I thought Max said you were fond of poetry.”

 

Jakes shrugged. “Well, I can be fond of a lot of things in the right circumstances. You understand.” His smile was conspiratorial, with a hint of mockery.

 

“I’m not sure I do,” Morse replied coolly, and then followed the direction of Jakes’ gaze as it swung over to rest on Thursday over by the fire.

 

 “You could start by getting that stick out of your arse,” Jakes muttered, and then moved away.

 

\-----------

 

So DeBryn took Thursday’s usual place as Morse’s late night library companion, and as the person he talked with most often during the day. Morse found him a man of deep, fascinating thought, who seemed genuinely interested in what Morse had to say. His humorous remarks were never cutting, and just as frequently directed at himself as the rest of the party.

 

He also got on very well with the children, where Jakes just snapped at them. Morse had seen the gathering frown on Thursday’s brow the first time that Peter had made comments about being seen and not heard to Sam and Joan, and, although Thursday had grown better at hiding it, Morse could still detect his unhappiness every time Jakes sharpened his tongue on them.

 

What Morse didn’t understand was why Thursday allowed it. Oh, Thursday would watch for a moment and then throw out a firm “Enough,” but he was a man who spoke his mind, he should have had no problem with telling Jakes to hold his tongue in the first place. It was another reason that Morse began to seriously believe that Thursday planned to marry him. Surely Thursday would not tolerate disrespect towards his children from anyone less. At the same time, it was an incredibly strong strike against Peter Jakes, and one which Morse found hard to forgive.

 

Another instance of kindness towards Sam, floating paper boats with him in the stream a week into their acquaintance, made Morse look at Max DeBryn speculatively. Here was a man a little closer to Thursday in age and experience, a man who loved reading and had a strong wit. And he seemed to like the children.

 

If Thursday wished to marry, would not Max be a far more suitable husband?

 

Morse deliberately sought Max out more and more in the following days, trying to ascertain his nature and suitability. It was not entirely selfless, as he enjoyed the man’s company a great deal, and it helped to compensate for the pronounced hole in his life which the removal of Thursday’s presence had left.

 

He started to notice Thursday looking their way more and more often, as he sat and talked with Max, and thought with a weary sort of self-congratulation that perhaps Thursday was noticing Max more now. It was a double edged blade though, because the thought of Thursday coming to care for Max was secretly painful in a way which Morse could barely account for.

 

But if Thursday had to marry, to salve his loneliness, it should at least be to someone who brought his life some happiness.

 

So when Morse felt Thursday’s eyes on them he made more and more of an effort to engage Max, to allow him to talk and show off his best traits, that Thursday might see them. He stayed down with the company where normally he would have slunk off to enjoy time alone, walking or reading, and saw his efforts bear fruit when Thursday began to cross the room to join their conversations, sometimes leaving Jakes on his own quite abruptly. Thursday would immediately dominate the discussion, and Morse was happy to subside a little and listen to the two of them talk. Indeed, doing so was fascinating, Thursday almost seeming to verbally spar with DeBryn over various points, sometimes supporting views which Morse knew he didn’t believe in just to draw out the debate.

 

Yes, DeBryn was by far a better choice for him.

 

\-------------

 

It was perhaps two weeks after the guests had arrived that Thursday was absent for the day, drawn away on business, and a stranger arrived at Thornfield. The man was named Mason, and he delighted everyone with gregarious tales of his and Thursday’s adventures abroad during their army service. Mrs Frazil seemed particularly willing to listen, and Morse watched with amusement as she asked keen and insightful questions which revealed much of the tales to be exaggeration.

 

Beyond that, Morse thought nothing of Mason’s presence until he met Thursday in the hallway as he arrived that evening and saw the white shock which came over him at the stranger’s name.

 

“Is everything alright, sir?”

 

“No, I - Mason, you say?”

 

“Yes, he’s been entertaining us with stories all afternoon.”

 

Thursday swallowed. “Has he now? What sort of stories?”

 

“Of your travels.” After eying Thursday for a moment, Morse added, “Light hearted anecdotes, sir, nothing more.”

 

“Hmm. I’d better speak with him then. Go and fetch me for me, quietly. Tell him I’m waiting in the study.”

 

Morse did as instructed, and left the party early that night to catch up on his reading.

 

\------------

 

He roused from sleep to the echoes of a piercing scream, a chilling noise which set his heart pounding and eyes straining into the darkness. It brought back a memory of the night of the fire, and for a moment he stared hard at the doorknob, half expecting it to twist as it had that night.

 

There was nothing but silence, and Morse began to think that he had imagined it, but then he suddenly heard several doors creaking open and the sound of a commotion in the corridor.

 

Hurrying to don his robe and slippers, he opened his own door and found almost all of the guests milling around at the other end of the corridor, looking dishevelled and alarmed.

 

“What was that noise?”

 

“Did you hear it?”

 

“Where’s Thursday?”

 

“Someone was screaming!”

 

“Alright, alright.” Thursday suddenly appeared from behind them, in the direction of the stairs. “What are you all doing out of bed?”

 

“There was a scream!”

 

“Just a servant having a nightmare. Nothing to worry about. Come on, now, you’ll catch cold standing out here. Gentlemen, I’m sure I can trust you to set an example for the ladies.”

 

Morse watched from a few meters away as Thursday deftly manipulated everyone through word and gesture, reassuring and slightly bullying in turn until the last of them was entering their rooms.

 

He slipped back into his own room, and stood with his back to the door for a moment. He knew Thornfield, and he knew Thursday. There had been no servant with a nightmare.

 

Hardly knowing what was driving him, Morse changed into his trousers and shirt, pulled on his socks and shoes, and sat on the edge of his bed. The night felt tense and expectant, as though something dreadful might happen any minute, and he watched the door with detached anticipation.

 

At length, there came a knock. He moved to stand next to the door.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Morse? Are you awake?” Morse unbolted the door and opened it a handswidth. Thursday stood there, still dressed as he had been at dinner, and with a resolved expression. “Good. I need your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This felt a bit transitional. Back to adventures and excitement next chapter!


	9. Blood and Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mysteries, attics, blood, and a leavetaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A summary so far:  
> Morse is taken on at Thornfield Hall as a tutor to Mr Thursday's son, Sam. His suspicions that something isn't quite right are aroused when Thursday almost dies in a deliberate fire. Before he can confront the master, Thursday leaves, and when he returns it is with guests: the DeBryns and the Jakes. All of the occupants are awoken one night by a piercing scream...

_“Morse? Are you awake?” Morse unbolted the door and opened it a handswidth. Thursday stood there, still dressed as he had been at dinner, and with a resolved expression. “Good. I need your help.”_

 

Saying nothing further, he moved off down the corridor, and Morse hurried to catch up.

 

“What has happened?” And, when Thursday made no answer, “Who made that noise?”

 

“Morse, I-“ They came to a sudden halt at the staircase to the attics, and Thursday turned to grip Morse’s shoulder. “You are the only one I can trust,” he said in a low voice. “Will you help me?”

 

“Of course, sir. Of course I will.”

 

The hand squeezed his shoulder gently, and then they were going up again, the flickering light from the candle casting uneasy light into the darkness ahead.

 

Thursday led Morse through passages he had never explored, pulling back bolts and unlocking doors until finally he came to a stop in front of a final one, and turned to Morse again.

 

“How are you at the sight of blood?” he asked, and Morse hesitated. He’d seen blood drawn when the boys were beaten at school, and it had always made him queasy, but otherwise he didn’t know.

 

“I’ve never been tested,” he said uncertainly.

 

Thursday sighed. “Well, nothing else for it.” He opened the door, and led the way inside.

 

It was a medium sized room, with a settee, chairs and table which were less fine than the furnishings of the rest of the house. A servant’s quarters. There was another door set into the far wall which Thursday immediately moved to and checked to ensure it was secured, and Morse’s eyes followed him so automatically that he almost didn’t notice the other occupant of the room.

 

“How are you, Mason?” Thursday asked gruffly, and only then did Morse see the man lying half supine on the couch, see the shirt pulled half open and the raw, bloody wound on his shoulder.

 

Morse swallowed, hard.

 

“I’m done for,” the man croaked. His face was pale and waxy, and he shuddered in long, uneasy motions which stirred sympathetic shivers in Morse.

 

“Nonsense.” Thursday moved to him now, drawing the shirt away further, and Morse saw the rivulets of blood which ran down from the wound. It was so _red_.

 

“She said she’d kill me. She said she’d drain my  _heart_.”

 

“Quiet, Mason!”

 

Their voices seemed to come from very far away. Morse took a half stumbling step forward, not wanting to stand frozen by the door, and he could have sworn he could  _smell_  the iron tang of the blood from across the room. He licked suddenly dry lips, and felt as though the light of the candle dipped and dimmed on the table.

 

“Morse, will you-“ Thursday glanced back at him, and Morse couldn’t quite make out the expression on his face. In fact he couldn’t really make out much at all anymore, except for the bright red stain of the blood. “Morse? Damn it, _Morse!_ ”

 

He saw Thursday lunge across the room towards him, and then the world faded around him and he fell.

 

\------------------

 

There was gentle pressure on his scalp as large fingers carded searchingly through his hair, and Morse let out a soft, surprised noise before managing to blink his eyes open.

 

“There, lad, you’re alright,” Thursday’s voice murmured, and Morse tilted his head back to find himself looking up at Thursday kneeling over him. It took only a second for his brain to kick in, and then he realised he was on the floor, that he had fainted. He groaned quietly, more from humiliation than anything else. “You’re alright,” Thursday said again. “Can you stand?”

 

“Yes,” he mumbled. “Sorry, I don’t know what-“

 

“Never mind that, let’s get you up.” Thursday gripped his elbow and carefully levered him to his feet. The room seemed to rock to and fro, and he wondered dizzily if this was what it would be like to be adrift on the ocean. Closing his eyes only seemed to make matters worse, so he kept them open and let Thursday steady him. Once he was upright he ended up standing so close that his nose was practically buried in Thursday’s jacket, and he stared hard at the man’s chest for a moment before working up the nerve to glance to the side at Mason.

 

There was still blood everywhere, and Morse’s knees felt a little like the bones had gone out of them, but the dizziness gradually subsided. “I’m alright now, sir. It was just… unexpected.”

 

“Hmm.” Thursday’s breath ruffled Morse’s hair as he huffed out a breath. “Well, see how you go. I don’t need two patients instead of one.”

 

Morse pulled back reluctantly, and Thursday’s grip on his arm slid away. He fixed his gaze just past Mason’s other shoulder, and moved over to him. “What do you need me to do?”

 

“Put pressure on the wound.” Thursday came to stand next to him, and handed him a cloth. “Here, if you stand behind him you won’t have to see.”

 

Morse gave him a quick look, surprised by his thoughtfulness. Then again, as Thursday had said, he’d be no use to anyone if he fainted again.

 

“I’m going to get the doctor. Mason? Mason, I’m going for the doctor. You’ll be fine, just rest a while. And you are not to say anything,  _anything_ , do you hear me?”

 

And then Thursday was gone.

 

Morse pressed down hard with the cloth, trying to ignore the slippery skin under his fingers, the jagged edge of flesh. Don’t think about it, he told himself, don’t think about it. But the feel of it, pulsing under his fingertips, streaking his skin with crimson strains, left him in a constant state of nauseous dread.

 

After half an hour his legs were tired of standing hunched over Mason, and he dragged a chair around to perch on. He still couldn’t relax though; eyes constantly drawn back to the unknown, mysterious door the master had been so concerned about. Even with his state of heightened alertness Morse could only watch it like a hawk for so long before finally his eyes felt fuzzy and almost closed with tiredness. His head dipped forward, and then jerked back up again; he snapped himself back awake, put more pressure on, and listened with half an ear to the unintelligible mumblings coming from the wounded man.

 

What had happened to him? What was behind the door? Why was Thursday so determined that Morse not find out?

 

His eyes drifted shut again, and this time he jolted awake to a rattling sound which made his breath catch in his chest.

 

The doorknob was turning, the doorknob to that other room. It eased slowly around, and then banged and rattled for a minute as whoever it was obviously found the door locked.

 

Turned slowly again, banged and rattled.

 

Then the sound of a scuffle, and ten minutes of silence. Then the rattling again. It was as though the person on the other side was growing more frantic.

 

Silence again, and Morse found himself holding his breath, his heart beating so furiously that he thought it might rupture. He pressed down so hard on the wound that the man under his hand moaned and writhed in discomfort.

 

_Bang_. The door shuddered as though it had been kicked.  _Bang_.  _Bang_.

 

Morse muttered a quick, silent prayer, and stood. He dropped the bloody cloth he was holding and cast about for a weapon, anything he could use. The fireplace caught his eye, and he picked up an iron poker and sidled towards the door. It had gone quiet again, too quiet.

 

He waited beside it, waited and waited until he couldn’t bear the suspense anymore and reached out with trembling fingers to touch the handle. To test it, just a little. It turned smoothly under his hand and then caught.

 

_Locked_.

 

He closed his eyes as visceral relief flowed through him, and took his first proper breath in what seemed like half an hour. The strain melting away seemed to leave his muscles too relaxed to respond, so he was slow and off guard when the next noise came.

 

It took only a second, maybe two, and by the time Morse had registered the scraping of a key turning in the lock the door was slamming open, catching him hard in the hip. He yelped as he went down, hitting the floor with a jarring roll, and he barely made out a dark shape from the corner of his eye before there was the sound of a struggle and the door banging shut again.

 

For a moment there was absolute silence.

 

He lay there, panting, and rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling. He couldn’t quite catch his breath, and gasped and gasped again.

 

He’d heard the key turn in the lock again, locking it this time, and wanted to check it for himself, wanted to wedge a chair under the door, but he couldn’t seem to move, and his hip  _hurt_ , hurt far more than being hit by a door should warrant.

 

His hand went down to rub it, to try and pressure away the pain, but he felt dampness on the wool of his trousers and moaned softly as he saw fresh dark red on his fingers.

 

Not hit by the door then.

 

Seconds dragged by, minutes, measured only by the drum of his heartbeat and the low, despairing noises coming from Mason at the other end of the room. Eventually Morse summoned every scrap of willpower he had, and pulled himself to his feet, unsteady for a second and then forcing himself to remain upright and strong. If they were unsafe here then it was his duty and responsibility to guard them; Thursday was relying on him, had left him in charge.

 

One of the chairs slotted perfectly under the handle, the frame of it barring the door from reopening. Morse wished he’d had the presence of mind to do that in the first place.

 

He made his way back across the room to Mason, leaning on the backs of chairs and the table to support him as he went. The distance seemed to stretch interminably, but finally he was perched on a chair behind the man again and could resume his previous duty.

 

The dull, throbbing ache in his side turned sharp whenever he tried to move, and he held himself as still as possible.  After ten or twenty minutes, his brain carefully informed him that he should really do something about his own wound, and he drew a clean handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and pushed it down under the waistband of his trousers on the injured side.

 

The pain intensified as he pressed down, and he bit his lip to keep from crying out. At least he couldn’t really see the blood from his own wound, it was merely a darkened patch on dark trousers. He drew short, careful breaths through his nose, and concentrated on not passing out, on keeping pressure on his own injury and on the stranger’s shoulder.

 

Not much longer now, he told himself. At any second Thursday would walk through the door, and Morse wouldn’t have to worry anymore. Not much longer now.

 

Not much longer.

 

\-------------

 

The sound of footsteps in the hallway came loud and angry, disturbing the fragile, rasping peace of their synchronised breathing. Morse’s head jerked up in instinctive alarm, but it was the outer door which sprung open, and Thursday’s familiar face and bearing which pushed into the room.

 

“Thursday,” Morse said, but his voice sounded so faint that he wasn’t sure Thursday had heard him.

 

“Here he is.” The doctor had followed Thursday in, and was hustled over to Mason. Morse let his hand fall away from the injured shoulder, his other hand falling away from his own side as though it was incapable of functioning independently.

 

“It looks bad, Thursday. Are these.. _teethmark_ s?”

 

“Nothing you can’t fix, I’m sure.” While Thursday’s tone was impatient, Morse found the sound of his voice reassuring, as though it triggered some primal instinct of safety. “Come on, come on, let’s get him up and to your surgery.”

 

The doctor worked on Mason for a few more minutes, Thursday hovering relentlessly, and Morse managed a tight grimace of response whenever Thursday glanced at him.

 

“Well, that should hold him, but we’ll-“

 

“Yes, yes, let’s go, the servants will be up soon. Morse, can you-“

 

“I think I’d better sit for a bit,” Morse managed, the words producing themselves with no input from his brain. As he raised his hand to gesture with it he realised anew that it was covered in blood; fresh, bright red intermingled with dried darkened flakes. It could have been Mason’s. It could have been his own.

 

Thursday hesitated for a second. “Yes, of course, the blood. I wasn’t thinking, you stay there for a minute. You’ve done well tonight, Morse, more than well.”

 

Morse blinked and Mason was on his feet between the two of them, blinked again and the room was empty aside from himself. He looked carefully at the other door for a moment, but the chair was still firmly in place and he’d heard nothing for hours. And Thursday hadn’t said anything, so perhaps it was safe to leave it.

 

He really wanted to lie down.

 

The first few feet were the hardest, feeling as though his side was wrenching with every step, and then he found some rhythm to it, pushing the grating pain aside.

 

That’s it, he told himself, the pain has saturated itself. It can’t get any worse, it’s already as bad as it’s going to get, and you made it across the room with it like that, so you can make it down the corridor. Down the stairs. Across the hall.

 

His steps slowed involuntarily in front of DeBryn’s door, and his hand knocked before he could think the better of it.

 

A minute passed, and he heard a slow shuffling behind the door. It opened a crack, and kind eyes blinked myopically at him. “Morse?”

 

He tried to smile through dry, cracked lips, but feared it came out rather warped judging by DeBryn’s expression. “I wonder… if you might… give me a hand,” he managed in between slow breaths.

 

“Morse, what’s- come in, come in.”

 

Morse leaned a hand on the doorframe and took a wavering step into the room.

 

“Morse?”

 

The door closed behind him, and he managed to stumble the few remaining steps to the chair at the dressing table, sinking into it with a stifled gasp.

 

“You said, you said that you’d helped patch men back together, in the army?”

 

“That I did.” DeBryn’s gaze was sharp and assessing. “Where are you hurt, Morse?”

 

“I… had a bit of an… accident.” It took a lot of effort to get the words out, and DeBryn was crouched by his side by the end of them.

 

“Morse, I need you to tell me where you’re hurt. I’ll get the doctor.”

 

Morse made a desperate grab for DeBryn’s arm. “No doctor,” he gritted out. “Can you… can  _you_  help?”

 

DeBryn looked indecisive for a moment, then gave a brisk nod. “If I can. Let me see.”

 

Untucking his shirt from his trousers proved too much of a task, but once DeBryn realised what he was doing he took over. The handkerchief, now bloodied and ruined, was discarded on the floor, and DeBryn hissed as he pulled at Morse’s waistband and saw his hip.

 

“We need to get you on the bed, Morse. And you need a doctor.”

 

“Don’t need a doctor. There’s no time.”

 

Morse would later be unable to explain what had so fixed his mind on the idea that a doctor shouldn’t see to him; he didn’t know if it was shame at failing in the duty that he thought Thursday had given him, the worry of expense, or feeling as though Thursday urgently needed his help and Morse needed to get back out there as soon as possible. Whatever caused it, at the time he was adamant.

 

“Alright, just get on the bed, Morse.” DeBryn had to half carry him, and the world spun sickeningly as Morse lay back. Quick, sure hands unbuttoned his trousers and pulled one side of them down over his hip, and Morse grunted as DeBryn prodded at him. He’d lied to himself when he said the pain couldn’t get any worse.

 

“It’s fine, isn’t it?” he asked, voice high and strained. “It’ll be fine?”

 

There was a long sigh from the other man, and then DeBryn’s face came into his field of vision. “It doesn’t look too deep, Morse, so yes, it will be fine. I can clean it, and stitch it, but only if you  _promise_ me you’ll get it looked at properly.”

 

“I promise,” Morse said numbly. He could go into the village once the day was over, could get it seen to. Everything would be fine.

 

DeBryn left briefly, and Morse lost all perception of time until sharp pain needled at him and he jerked and bucked until Max’s voice soothed him. “I’m just putting in stitches, Morse, just breath in and out. In and out.”

 

Morse brought his wrist to his mouth and bit down hard on his sleeve, muffling the noises he was afraid would escape otherwise. This was nothing, he told himself. Nothing.

 

“Alright, you’re in as good shape as I can make you. I’ll leave you to rest here for a bit, and fetch you later. No, don’t try to get up. Rest a bit, Morse.”

 

Morse would wait until DeBryn left the room, and then go and find Thursday. Thursday needed him, and he needed to know that Thursday was safe – that no one had escaped that room once he had left.

 

He would just wait until Max left the room…

 

\----------

 

The sun was already high when his eyes cracked open again, and despite his mind jolting to awareness his body was slower to follow. He rolled awkwardly onto his good side and managed to make it off the bed, a red hot pain drilling through his hip.

 

Some rationality had returned, and when he caught sight of himself in Max’s mirror – hair wild, shirt partially untucked and blood smeared – he thought he must have given the man an incredible shock earlier. He would have to thank him, somehow, for what he’d done.

 

The pressing need to find Thursday still thrilled in him, but he was sensible enough now to realise that he couldn’t walk around in his current state. He opened the door a crack, carefully looked up and down the hall, and then made for his own bedroom as fast as he could limp. Once he’d locked the door behind him, he stripped off his ruined clothes and carefully examined himself.

 

The wound just inside his hip bone was an inch long; Morse suspected it should have been a deep stab but the motion of his falling had converted it into a shallower motion and possibly saved his life. The neat stiches glared at him accusingly, and he remembered his promise to DeBryn; he wasn’t sure what else needed to be done with it but he could hardly go back on his word.

 

Who had done this?

 

The question thrummed through his mind incessantly, a thousand small pieces of knowledge desperately trying to come forward and form a whole. It was as though the whole of Thornfield was suddenly a puzzle, an unfamiliar, unfriendly world, and one he didn’t have the key to.

 

_Who had done this?_

 

\----------

 

Washed and dressed in clean clothing, and hoping the children would have started their lessons without his guidance, he headed downstairs. It took a little effort to make his stride seem smooth, but he clenched down on the pain and carried on.

 

He needed to find Thursday. He needed to find DeBryn. And then he needed to-

 

“Ah, Mr Morse.” Morse stared dumbly at Mrs Fairfax for a moment, almost unable to deal with anything outside of his limited focus.

 

“Mrs Fairfax,” he managed after a moment. “I was looking for-“

 

“Ah, of course, your visitor, I was just coming to get you. I’ve shown him into the north parlour for the moment. Will you need tea?”

 

“No, I-“

 

“Well, just let Shirley know if you need anything.” And she was gone, sailing off into the next room.

 

He stood bewildered for a moment, adjusting to this new input. A visitor? For him?

 

Visitor, Thursday, DeBryn.

 

He turned haltingly in the direction of the north parlour and set off again, feeling more than a little off kilter. The feeling didn’t abate when he saw who was waiting for him there, a familiar face but one half lost to the vagaries of time and childhood.

 

“Master Morse.” The man came forward, holding out a hand which Morse shook in a daze. “I daresay you won’t remember me, but my name’s-“

 

“Richard.” It wasn’t until he said the name aloud that he was entirely sure he still knew it; it brought back a rush of memories of his time as a boy, of being scolded or subtly encouraged. “Of course I remember you. How are you? How are…” he trailed off, and the manservant looked uncomfortable.

 

“That’s why I’m here. We didn’t have half a devil of a time finding you, but your old school master got in touch with someone in Oxford who gave him this address, and well, here I am.”

 

“Here you are,” murmured Morse. “I’m sorry, can I offer you some tea?”

 

“No, thank you.”

 

Morse gestured him into a seat, partially to have an excuse to sit down himself. Standing was causing the throbbing in his side to worsen.

 

“So, what can I do for you?”

 

“It’s, well, it’s your father. He’s in a very bad way – his heart – they say he’s dying. And he’s been asking for you. The missus wasn’t… but he was asking and asking, and Joyce said… And so here I am. I was hoping to take you back with me today, to see him.”

 

“My father,” Morse repeated, and this time the pain in his gut was completely unrelated to the stab wound. “And he asked for  _me_?” The manservant nodded patiently, and Morse tried to force himself to think clearly. “Of course I shall come,” he said slowly. “But I must arrange things here first. It may take some time – I’ll have them bring you something. But yes, I’ll come.”

 

The man’s face lit with a kindly smile. “Aye, I knew you would.” It was strange how one’s perception changed over time; Morse remembered the manservant being a stern, no-nonsense figure who he could not have imagined smiling.

 

Morse left him with a promise to return in the next few hours, and asked the next servant he found to send tea and breakfast to the parlour.

 

\-----------

 

He found Thursday in the drawing room with Peter Jakes, and stood quietly by the door until they paused in their conversation and looked over. Jakes lifted a supercilious eyebrow, and Morse ignored him to look only at Thursday.

 

“I wonder if I might have a moment of your time, sir?”

 

Thursday followed him out into the next room, closed the door behind him and leaned on it. “Morse.”

 

Now that the time was come, there were so many things to ask and say that Morse didn’t know where to begin. “Is everything… alright, sir?” he asked clumsily. “Is the earlier problem… resolved?”

 

Thursday blew out a breath. “Yes. I must thank you for your help last night, Morse, your assistance was invaluable.”

 

Morse gave a short, slightly strangled laugh and shook his head. He’d fainted, spent half the night in a state of terror, and almost allowed someone to harm the person he’d been set there to protect. He’d done a poor job of helping. “Hardly that, sir. But, but the danger has passed?” He wasn’t comfortable leaving if there was any risk to Thursday or the children of someone hurting them.

 

“Yes, Morse, it’s over now.” Thursday tilted his head and eyed him carefully. “I came back upstairs earlier, but you were gone. You had a long night.”

 

“Yes, sir,”

 

“Were you afraid?”

 

Morse swallowed past a suddenly dry throat. “I was afraid of something or someone in that other room, sir,” he said honestly. “There’s no chance that anyone else could be hurt, is there?” Thursday shook his head. “The children?” Morse persisted.

 

Thursday’s eyes darkened. “No, Morse, it’s taken care of. If I thought there was any risk…”

 

Morse stared at him for a moment, but the reassurance he’d hoped to feel from Thursday’s words didn’t come. There had apparently been risk last night, after all. What had changed?

 

“I – I’m just worried that if –“

 

“It’s taken care of,” Thursday repeated more firmly. “Enough, Morse. Now, if that’s all.” He started to turn, and Morse unthinkingly reached out to touch his arm. Thursday paused, and Morse stared down at his fingers outlined against the sleeve of Thursday’s jacket with a sense of shock. He hadn’t even realised he’d been standing close enough to…

 

He snatched his hand back, and took two quick paces backwards, wincing as the motion pulled at his side.

 

“Morse?”

 

“I, ah, I wanted to request a leave of absence.”

 

Thursday turned to face him fully again, and now there was a look of astonishment and irritation. “A leave of absence? What for? To go where?”

 

“My father is dying, sir, and has asked for me.”

 

At any other time Morse would have gained satisfaction from the look of shock he managed to put on Thursday’s face; the man was usually so unflappable. But not now, not like this.

 

“Your  _father_? I thought you had no family?”

 

“I was no longer welcome after I was sent to school, sir, and later received a letter saying that I had been disinherited in favour of a new son.” Redness swept over his face; he hated speaking of his family. “I had not expected to hear from them again.”

 

“No longer welcomed… you were what, ten?” Thursday looked outraged on Morse’s behalf. “What do you owe them?”

 

“He is dying, sir, and I cannot refuse to go if he has asked for me.”

 

“Humpf. How long will you be gone?”

 

“I’m afraid I don’t know, sir.”

 

“No more than two weeks, promise me.”

 

Morse hesitated. “I cannot promise you, not when I don’t know how he is. I will be gone as short a time as possible.”

 

“Hmm.” Thursday contemplated him for a minute. Some stray thought seemed to amuse him, as a smile caught at the edge of his lips. “You’ll need money, I suppose?”

 

Morse nodded. “Yes, sir.” He now had only the clothes he was standing in, and they slightly too small for him. He would have to have some new ones made immediately, and see how well the blood would wash out of his other set. Certainly the tear where he had been stabbed could be mended.   

 

“Alright, just let me…” Thursday fished in his waistcoat pocket and drew out a sheaf of notes, more money than Morse had ever seen in his life. One of the notes was proffered in Morse’s direction. “Here, fifty pounds.”

 

Morse’s mouth fell open. “You only owe me twenty, sir, I couldn’t possibly…”

 

“Well, bring me back the change. It’s just money, Morse.” But Morse shook his head stubbornly. “No. Well then. I must have change... Here. One, two, five, ten, twelve.” He counted the coins out into Morse’s palm. “Is it enough?”

 

“Yes, sir.” Morse’s mouth twitched in veiled amusement. “But now you owe me eight.”

 

“Come back for it then,” Thursday growled, and turned to the door. He hesitated before grasping the handle, and Morse waited quietly. “Are you alright, Morse? You seem…” he seemed uncertain how to finish the sentence.

 

“I think it’s just the shock, sir.”

 

“Yes,” Thursday murmured. “Well, it seems you and I must say goodbye for a while then.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Thursday moved to stand closer, and held out his hand. Morse was suddenly, powerfully reminded of the night of the fire, when Thursday had taken Morse’s hand between his own. “Well then?”

 

Morse reached out and carefully shook the offered hand, drawing his hand away swiftly afterwards as though Thursday’s warmth had burned him.

 

“Goodbye, sir. I’m sorry to have to leave you at this time.” With everything so unresolved, and the lingering possibility of danger, Morse finished in his head. Some core of certainty in him knew that he had to go to his father, that it was the right and decent thing to do, but it felt so  _wrong_. So unnatural to leave Thornfield, and Sam and Joan and Thursday, especially when he felt they might need him.

 

“Humpf. Are you? Well, I’m sure you’re sorry to leave  _some of us_ , at least!”

 

The words were puzzling, but before Morse had a chance to say anything Thursday was striding out of the room, the door closing with a final sounding click.

 

Morse let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding, and went to find the children.

 

Sam and Joan took the news of his leaving well, though Sam shadowed him back to his room afterwards, and then down to the carriage to see Jim Strange load the few belongings he would take. Morse turned and grasped his shoulders. “It won’t be for too long, and you have all of these fascinating guests to keep you company. Don’t get in too much trouble, now, and look after your sister.”

 

Sam bit his lip. “You sound like father,” he said quietly, and Morse saw his eyes glint with tears.

 

“Then you should listen to him,” Morse replied.

 

The boy surprised him by wrapping his arms around Morse in a hug, burying his head in Morse’s stomach. Morse stared fixedly at a tree in the distance as his own eyes watered, Sam unknowingly pressing hard against the wound on his side. He rested a hand on the back of the boy’s head for a moment, and then Sam pulled away, blinking fiercely. He stared at Morse, lower lip trembling, then ran into the house. Morse sighed.

 

“I’ll just be a minute,” he told Richard and Strange.

 

Luckily he didn’t have to search for Max, running into him in the main hallway as Morse entered the house. He seemed surprised to see Morse up and about.

 

“Morse?”

 

“Max. I - I have to go away suddenly, I’m afraid, my father is very ill,” Morse explained. “I haven’t forgotten my promise,” he added quickly, “and thank you, for everything you did this morning. And for being a good friend.”

 

“You’re welcome, of course, though I’d appreciate it if you avoided needing my services in future. But you shouldn’t be–“

 

Morse glanced up to see Thursday coming down the staircase with the Jakes family, and smiled tightly. “I’m really sorry, Max, I must be off; the carriage is waiting. Thank you again.” He gave a quick nod in Thursday’s direction before moving away, Max following him to the main door.

 

It was starting to drizzle, an unrelenting grey dampness which seeped straight through Morse’s jacket. He hunched his shoulders as he walked as briskly as he could manage to the carriage, and Richard opened the door for him.

 

“See you soon,” Strange said, and clapped him on the shoulder; Morse bit down on his tongue as pain speared through him. Over Strange’s retreating form he saw Max still standing in the doorway, and Morse gave him a half wave, quickly aborted when the motion pulled at his side again. He climbed carefully into the carriage, Richard checking that everything was secure, and then looked out of the window to see Thursday standing in close conference with Max at the door.

 

An odd tingling sensation of guilt swept over him, though he didn’t know why. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

 

When Thursday’s head jerked up to catch Morse’s eye, his face was like thunder. He started across the courtyard with long, swift strides, “ _Morse!_ ” but the carriage was already pulling away. Morse let out the lungful of air he’d been holding and leant his head back, trying to find a comfortable position. For the moment his fears over leaving were superseded by relief at avoiding Thursday’s apparent ire. He’d deal with that when he returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, lots of things happened in this chapter! Morse is being oblivious as usual. Poor Morse.
> 
> Also, I've just realised that this entire fic is a story about Morse staring angstily at doorknobs. Morse/doorknob OTP!


	10. A Place That Was No Longer Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having been told his father is dying, Morse travels back to his family home, still injured from his encounter in the attic. Dealing with his father is... difficult.

The journey was long, and felt far longer. Their arrival was late into the night, and there was no one to greet him when he arrived. This was a blessing, as Morse was unsure if he would have been able to manage much coherent conversation.

 

Remembering his promise to Max, he told Richard that he would need to see a doctor the following day about a wound he’d taken on a fall, and the manservant bemusedly agreed.

 

Finally, Morse could fall into soft sheets and covers and lie still, letting the ache of it subside a little. The jolting motion of the carriage had been near constant agony, but weariness and pain had somehow conspired to let him doze in small bouts. Now, however, true rest stole over him.

 

He slept deeply and well, not stirring until an attempt to turn onto his side in his sleep tore him awake with a moan. Disoriented, he cast about in the dim morning light and tried to get his bearings. The room was one he didn’t recognise, and it took a few shaky moments before the events of the day before, and the night before that, rushed back over him and he knew where he was.

 

His father’s house.

 

This must be one of the guest rooms, but it triggered no memories in Morse at all; either due to time or redecoration. There was a time when he’d known every inch of this house, but now he felt disconnected from it, as though he’d never spent those years here at all.

 

Washing and dressing was difficult at first, his side stiff and sore, but the pain gradually eased and allowed him to move more freely. The stairs creaked as he made his way down, relearning rooms and corridors which used to be so familiar to him but now seemed strange and altered, and he cautiously entered the breakfast room.

 

A young lady sat alone, head in one hand, gazing miserably at her untouched plate. Gentle curls of rich dark hair seemed to form a halo around her head, the angelic picture spoiled by the redness of her eyes and the mournful expression on her face.

 

“Joyce?” he whispered, hardly recognising her.

 

Her eyes darted up to take him in - he must be a complete stranger to her he realised - and then widened.

 

“Endeavour?” she asked uncertainly, and it was the first time someone had used his given name in years. “ _Endeavour_?”

 

“It’s me, Joyce,” he said, the words feeling clumsy and inadequate. “I… How are you? How is father?”

 

“Endeavour,” she repeated, seeming almost not to believe he was really there, before she threw herself out of her chair and ran around the table to launch herself into his arms. Much as with Sam the day before, Morse grimaced as her hold caused pain to flare at his hip, but he steadied her as she clung to him and soothed her as she burst into tears. “Oh, Endeavour, it’s… he’s…” Morse felt a moment’s fear that he might be too late, that his father had already passed away. “He’s so ill, Endeavour.”

 

“I came as soon as I heard,” he murmured into her hair. “How is he?”

 

She drew shuddering little breaths against his chest. “It’s his heart. He-” she hesitated, “-he’s been… drinking. And he’d been so desperate to win back our fortune; it put such strain on his heart, the doctor said.”

 

Morse closed his eyes and held her close, feeling long buried anger at his father surge in a slow wave.

 

“I should have done something, been better somehow,” she sobbed, and he immediately drew back to look her in the eye.

 

“No,” he said firmly. “This isn’t your fault. None of it is your fault. Oh Joyce, it’s so good to see you, I’m only sorry this had to be the reason.”

 

A slow tear trickled down her cheek. “Why didn’t you come back before,” she asked quietly, sadly. “Why didn’t you write to me?”

 

His chest lurched. “I did,” he said through numb lips. “I wrote to you at school, I wrote to you when I left. I wasn’t allowed to come home, your mother made that quite clear.”

 

She gazed at him with trusting but confused eyes. “I never got any of your letters. Did you get mine?”

 

And now the anger was a surging sea, crashing upon the rocks. He restrained it forcibly, reaching down to press on his wound to distract himself. “No, Joyce, no I didn’t. I’m so sorry, I would have treasured every one.” He drew her close again and kissed her hair.

 

“Mr Morse?” Richard was hovering in the doorway. “Mr Morse, the doctor’s here.”

 

“The doctor?” Joyce looked up at him, wide eyed, and God, she was so  _young_.

 

“I’m alright, Joyce, I just had a fall yesterday, and was told I needed to get it seen to. I’ll be right back.” He hesitated. “Your mother…?”

 

She seemed to understand what he was asking, though Morse wondered what she really remembered from when she was little. He wondered what her mother had said about him in all of the years since he’d been gone. “She’s keeping to her room. Maybe she’ll come down to dinner, now that you’re here?”

 

Morse winced inwardly, but gave her a nod and a strained smile. “Please excuse me.”

 

The doctor saw him in his bedroom, tutting over the wound and looking askance at Morse’s story of it being garnered in a fall. “It’s excellent work though, very neatly stitched. There’s not much more I can do beyond cleaning it and bandaging you up again. The stitches will need to come out in a week or two, I’ll come back for that.”

 

Once the doctor left Morse had a word with Richard, explaining that he had only what he was wearing and would urgently need to order some new clothes. Richard eyed him consideringly. “I know it’s been years, and you’re not a boy anymore, but I could take your measurements if you like?”

 

“Would you? That would be wonderful – I don’t want to leave Joyce or father.”

 

And indeed, Joyce seemed to have fallen back into despondent sadness in the time that he’d left her.

 

“Father’s sleeping,” she told him. “He sleeps much of the time now, and the doctor says it’s important to get his rest. He should wake in a few hours though, and then you could speak to him?”

 

Once she remembered he hadn’t eaten yet – actually Morse wasn’t sure when his last meal had been, as he’d had no time for breakfast, lunch or dinner the day before – Joyce insisted he have a late breakfast and took over mothering him as though she’d been doing it for years. It felt… nice, he realised, as though someone really cared about him. And she was far too guileless for him to doubt her affection.

 

She talked to him as they sat together, filling him in on her life over the last eight years, telling him about their father and her mother and her friends. And his half-brother.

 

“I’m worried about mother, and not just because of father. She makes herself sick fretting over Matthew. He’s never been a healthy baby,” Joyce confided unhappily. Morse would have liked to see him, but apparently Gwen was keeping him in her rooms with her, and that was a threshold Morse had no desire to breach.

 

He saw his father that afternoon.

 

Morse remembered his father as a towering giant, a forbidding, or at best indifferent, figure, whom he had ceased to know as a person and became more of an idea. The frail, sickly looking man in the bed looked nothing like Morse remembered his father; he was a stranger.

 

“Who’s there?” the wasted, pale figure asked querulously.

 

“Morse, sir. That is, Endeavour. Your son,” Morse added.

 

“Endeavour? Weak, _scab_ of a boy. You’re Endeavour?” he said disbelievingly, squinting at Morse.

 

Morse held himself absolutely rigid by the bed, and kept his face blank. “Yes, sir.”

 

“Why are you here?”

 

“You asked for me, sir.”

 

“Nonsense. Asked for you,” Morse’s father mumbled to himself. “Why would I ask for you?”

 

Morse sat gingerly in the chair at the bedside, breathing shallowly to minimize his intake of the slightly sweet smell of sickness permeating the room. “Well, I’m here. Is there anything I can do for you? Do you need anything?”

 

The old man shook his head wretchedly. “Endeavour? That boy! So like his mother. So like his mother. I shouldn’t have let her send him away,” he said abruptly to Morse. “Was I wrong to let her send him away?”

 

Morse’s mouth was dry, and his thoughts fractured. “I… Why did… I’m sure he forgives you, father.”

 

“Father? Who are you, to call me father? No, no.” Morse’s father muttered to himself for a moment, and then continued. “So like his mother, so wilful. And stubborn, so stubborn.”

 

Morse sat with his father in silence for a while, but though the old man mumbled a little he didn’t say anything more which Morse could distinguish. Morse left him feeling weary and worn down.

 

\---------

 

His father passed away two weeks later; Morse and Joyce were with him when he died. His last words to Morse were that he was a disappointment, and the sting of them hadn’t lessened by the time the man wheezed and rasped his way out of the world. The sentiment hung over Morse, as cloying and heavy as the air in the sick room, and his eyes darted desperately this way and that as he sat beside his father’s body and held Joyce’s hand so tightly he probably left bruises.

 

The funeral was a week later, and the first time he had seen his step mother since his arrival. She didn’t look at him.

 

He stayed another week, helping Joyce to organise the household, supporting her in any way that he could. He realised that Gwen, whose responsibility it should have been to manage such affairs, was in all likelihood remaining confined to her chambers to avoid him, that his presence was worsening the situation.

 

He took his leave of Joyce painfully, with earnest promises to write each other regularly, and felt that at least this one good thing had come out of the matter. No matter the gaping maw of emotion which his father’s dismissal of him had reopened, at least he had his sister back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *pokes chapter with a sharp stick* I'm not really sure about the way this came out. Back to Thornfield in the next chapter!


	11. Returns and Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morse returns to Thornfield after the death of his father, and lives in dread of his time there coming to an end...

On arriving at the village near Thornfield, Morse sent his things on ahead with the coach and decided to walk over the fields instead. It would be a chance to clear his head, one which he sorely needed after the weeks at his family’s house. The time he’d spent there had seemed to fade more and more into an unreal dream the closer he got back to Thornfield, but at the same time he felt strangely unprepared to face his more familiar life. Mrs Fairfax, the children, _Thursday_.

 

The day was bright and fresh; June had shifted into July almost without him noticing and beams of intermittent sunshine broke through the clouds. The grass was still damp from recent rain as he hiked over the fields and through the edge of the wood; he’d set off very early that morning in order to make it home before noon.

 

And Thornfield _was_ home, Morse realised now, the only place he had ever considered to be such since he was a young boy.

 

He was still lost in his thoughts as he broke through the tree line out into the field which directly bordered the estate, and startled at the low, rumbling voice which came from close beside him. “Returned then, have you?”

 

In the shade of a great oak Morse could make out Thursday sitting sprawled on the roots, waistcoat unbuttoned and boots scuffed and muddy; Morse had almost walked straight past him without even noticing him.

 

“Hullo,” Morse said quietly, mouth quirking in pleased recognition. The moment seemed perfect, almost holy, somehow, sunlight filtering through the trees and birdsong loud in the background. _Home_ , his heart sang again.

 

Thursday leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and looked Morse over. Morse glanced down involuntarily, wondering what Thursday saw when he looked at him. His new suit, better fitting and much less worn, still felt foreign and stiff, and he raised a finger to run under the tight band of his collar as Thursday’s assessment lingered on.

 

“ _Hello_ , indeed. Where have you been then; you’ve been gone a month!”

 

The familiarity of the tone and the sly accusation eased Morse’s uncertainty that he might come back and find everything changed. Thursday was still the same. _This_ , between them, was still the same.

 

Morse shrugged, and dropped his hand to fiddle with his cuff. “I was with my father, sir. He’s-“ and here Morse had to pause and swallow, “- he’s dead.”

 

Thursday’s eyes softened, and he leaned back against the trunk of the tree. “I see. I’m sorry, lad.”

 

The ground seemed suddenly fascinating, and Morse gave a half-hearted shrug. “I – he was… It was right for me to go.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

Morse stood in silence for a moment, before daring another look at Thursday’s pensive face. “How have you been, sir?”

 

“Oh, well enough.” Thursday roused a little, and peered at Morse more keenly. “How have _you_ been, that’s the question, isn’t it?”

 

Heat crept along the tips of Morse’s ears. “Fine, sir. And Sam and Joan?”

 

“ _Fine_ , is it? Curious, I could have sworn Max DeBryn told me you were injured the day you left.” His gaze roved over Morse’s face. “That doesn’t sound fine to me.”

 

Feeling that anything he could say would be incriminating, Morse stayed quiet. He hadn’t done anything wrong, had got himself seen to without bothering anyone, so he didn’t appreciate the master’s reproach. His chin lifted a little, and he stared boldly back at Thursday.

 

A gentle breeze ruffled their hair, and time seemed suspended for a moment.

 

“ _In fact,_ DeBryn said he had to stitch you up. Said it looked like you’d been _stabbed_. That you’d lost a lot of blood. That an inch deeper and it would have been very serious.” Thursday’s voice remained even and contemplative, but he slowly rose from his seated position and took two steps closer until he loomed over Morse.

 

“It wasn’t though,” Morse muttered, still feeling mutinous. “Serious. I took care of it.”

 

“ _Took care of it!_ ” Thursday growled. “Took care of it by going to DeBryn, and then some hack of a doctor afterwards. You  _did_  go to a doctor, didn’t you, Morse?” The strange intensity in his eyes scared Morse a little, and he nodded. “Well, thank God for small favours! Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

Morse frowned, bewildered. “Tell you?”

 

“Yes,  _tell me_! Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt, for God’s sake. Why, on my entering the room – with a doctor, I might add – were your first words not ‘I’ve been stabbed!’”

 

“I didn’t think it was important,” Morse stammered.

 

“ _Not important!_ ” Thursday roared. He stopped and glared at Morse, practically steaming, and then turned and leaned heavily against the tree. “How could it possibly have been unimportant, Morse? What happened? _Tell me what happened!_ ”

 

Rage had turned his face a dull red, and Morse could see lines of strain spreading on his features, half-turned away though his head was. “Why don’t we sit down for a moment,” Morse tried, voice uneven, but Thursday shook his head vehemently and turned to face him fully again. “I - I was sitting in the room, and someone was trying the handle of the door and banging it,” he recited carefully. “I picked up something to use as a weapon and moved beside the door, but it opened and I was down before I could do anything. I didn’t realise I was hurt at first.”

 

Thursday took a deep breath, and seemed to swallow his first reaction. “And then?”

 

“Then the door closed again. I couldn’t leave Mr Mason, so I secured the door and sat down with him again. I kept pressure on both wounds. You were in a hurry when you came back and I was… well, anyway, I got it seen to.”

 

“And you were _what_ , Morse?”

 

Morse wanted to look away, but found that he couldn’t, found that his mouth answered without his permission. “I was… ashamed. That I didn’t manage to get the better of them. That I almost let you down.”

 

“ _Christ_ ,” Thursday muttered. “You didn’t let me down, Morse. You did a hell of a lot more than… What happened, when the door opened? Who hurt you – did you see them?”

 

“No, I – it was just a dark shape. And then I was… well, everything got a bit blurry for a while.” They stood together for a minute, Thursday’s breathing evening back to normal and Morse trying to tamp down on his defensiveness. “Sir, it is – you _did_ say the danger had passed, when I left? It has been safe here, for you?”

 

“Yes, yes, I took care of it.” Thursday let out an ugly laugh. “You were worried about  _my_ safety, after I let you get…” Finally Thursday let out a long sigh. “Well, thank God you’re safe. I almost rode after you. I should have ridden after you,” he added, almost to himself.

 

“I really am fine, sir.” Morse looked at him earnestly, trying to convey this through sheer force of will. Thursday’s lips twitched in the smallest show of amusement.

 

“Of course you are. If the day ever came when you weren’t fine, I’d be worried about the sky falling.” Morse tried a half-hearted smile in return. “Welcome home, lad.”

 

“Thank you, sir.”

 

\---------

  

The guests had departed Thornfield – apparently less than a week after Morse himself had left. Mrs Fairfax told him that, despite there being no formal announcement, the consensus was that the stage was all set for a marriage between Thursday and Peter Jakes. This was backed up by Joan, who thought it was all thrillingly romantic; she’d taken a shine to Jakes despite his sharp tongue. She thought he was very handsome, and apparently that made up for a multitude of sins. Sam remained mute and terse on the matter, which Morse thought spoke for itself.

 

Not that Jakes was a bad person, Morse had to keep reminding himself. It was just that Morse didn’t think he was right for  _Thursday_. But then, who was Morse to judge, or to try and direct other people’s happiness? Any thoughts he’d had of directing Thursday’s attention to DeBryn seemed to have been unsuccessful, so perhaps Thursday cared enough for Jakes to see them though any rough patches.

 

Morse hoped so, even as the thought made his heart ache. 

 

Another fact which became clearer to him day by day was that he had to consider his own future. Just as he’d come to accept that Thornfield was indelibly his home, he had to plan to leave it. Jakes had made no secret of the way he felt about having the children around the house, and, even though Morse hoped the other man’s attitude to them would soften once they were his stepchildren, it had nonetheless been clear that he planned to send them to school.

 

If the children went to school, there would be no position for Morse at the house.

 

He broached this one day with Thursday on one of their walks, a few weeks after his return. Things had settled back into the easy routine he remembered from before, and it was painful to disturb it, but Morse didn’t like the uncertain, threatened feeling he was living with, as though his entire existence might be uprooted at any moment.

 

“Sir, it has come to my attention… That is, I understand that you are…”

 

Thursday waited for a moment, and then huffed impatiently. “Spit it out, Morse.”

 

“You’re to be married.”

 

They crossed the stile into the next field, Thursday turning once he was over to check that Morse made it without trouble. It was a habit of his when they walked, and it never failed to warm Morse. Now it gave Morse an opportunity to scan his face, and Thursday seemed torn between disbelief and amusement.

 

“Sir,” Morse prompted him, after they had gone several more yards.

 

“Hmm? What was the question, Morse?”

 

Morse bit his lip, not entirely understanding the game Thursday was playing. The words were no easier to get out the second time around. “You’re… to be married, sir?”

 

“ _Am I, now?_ ” Thursday drawled, lingering over the words. “Married?”

 

Morse darted a glance at him, but his face had settled into an unreadable expression.

 

“I’m sorry if I’ve presumed too much, or it’s untrue, sir.” He waited a moment, hoping to be told he was mistaken, but Thursday said nothing. “But I must consider my own position. If… that is, if Sam and Joan are to go to school, then I must look for somewhere new.”

 

“Mmm. Certainly, if Sam and Joan were to go to school we would have no need of a tutor,” Thursday said contemplatively.

 

Having it confirmed somehow took the wind out of Morse. “Yes, sir.”

 

“Are you telling me that you have found somewhere new, Morse? Or are you going back to your family?”

 

“My family? No, they aren’t, that is, they wouldn’t…” Morse shook himself. “I shall advertise for a position, as soon as the time comes.”

 

“Advertise?” Thursday sounded surprised, as though this hadn’t occurred to him, and displeased. “No, there’s no need. I will find you somewhere if you need to go.”

 

Morse nodded, and it was a moment before he could trust his voice. “Thank you, sir. I’m sorry to be any trouble.”

 

“Your particular brand of trouble is well worth it, Morse. You shall be sadly missed, if you leave.”

 

A quick breath and a burning sensation behind his eyes caused Morse to look away into the undergrowth, not turning back until he was sure he had control of himself again.

 

Thursday walked on, appearing entirely unaffected.

 

\--------

 

After their conversation Morse had expected things to move more quickly, but still nothing seemed to change. Weeks went by with no apparent planning for the wedding, without Thursday riding over to visit the Jakes’, without Thursday telling Morse if he had had any response to his enquiries on Morse’s behalf.

 

It was strangely excrutiating, caught between one thing and the next, revelling in these precious moments of Thursday’s company, of time with Sam and Joan and wandering the beautiful grounds and library. Every day as he went about his routine he thought, _this might be the last day, this will all end soon_. He might never breakfast in this room again, or run his fingers over the tomes which had become familiar companions to him, or hear the rolling waves of Thursday’s voice as he expounded on whatever topic took his fancy that day.

 

Thursday himself became more and more difficult to deal with, capricious and unsettling. One day the whole of his attention would be directed at Morse; he would tell him stories, direct the full intensity of his gaze at him, and treat Morse as though he were the most important person in the world. It was a heady, dangerous feeling. The next day he would barely speak to Morse, almost blatantly ignoring and dismissing him, and Morse reminded himself that he was nothing more than Thursday’s paid employee, someone to turn to for amusement only when there was nothing more interesting to occupy him.

 

It hurt though, a tug in Morse’s chest which became almost constant when he looked at Thursday, thought about Thursday.

 

When he admitted to himself that he felt love for Thursday.

 

Morse was not usually one to ignore hard truths about himself, but this particular truth brought no benefit and much pain. Before, he had managed to fool himself into thinking he cared only for Thursday’s opinion as a friend, that any uneasiness over Thursday’s marriage was based on concern for Thursday’s happiness. That was still true, of course, but now he had come to quietly accept the plaintive yearning in his heart which secretly underlay every breath he took, and which swelled and tightened around his chest with every interaction.

 

Every time he saw Thursday – limed by firelight in the library, smiling at his children, lips soundlessly moving as he read a book, striding boldly across the lawn –Morse’s heart quietly cried out ‘I love this man, and it hurts.’

 

He should have been grateful to be leaving, because to stay here feeling this way was surely unsustainable, but his mind was overcome by his heart in this matter as it told him that he could stay here at Thornfield forever, content with just being near Thursday in whatever way possible. Just to see him across the hall every now and then, just to hear the tones of his voice from a distance. That would be enough.

 

If only he wasn’t to marry. If only he didn’t have to marry.

 

\---------------

 

It was early September when Thursday called Morse into his study late one afternoon, and the uneasy truce was broken.

 

“I’ve found you a possible position,” Thursday began bluntly, as soon as Morse had cleared a haphazard pile of papers off a chair and sat down. “A family with three children, a friend of a friend. They have a beautiful house in Ireland, which-“

 

“Ireland?” Morse couldn’t help the shocked exclamation.

 

Thursday leaned back in his chair, not quite meeting Morse’s eyes. “Yes. It’s a beautiful country, Ireland. You’ll enjoy it, I think, on your walks.”

 

Morse felt oddly frozen, though he’d known this moment was coming for weeks, months. He’d known it, and yet the concrete proof of it still managed to knock him sideways. “Then… you are to be married,” he managed eventually.

 

“Hmm.” Thursday eyed him for a moment. “Some time ago you came to me and pointed out you would need to find somewhere new.”

 

“And the time has come, sir?” Morse asked, heart in his throat. Thursday didn’t answer immediately, and after a moment he stood and walked to the window. Morse stayed in his seat, feeling as though he’d been glued there, as though he were held forcibly in place waiting for Thursday’s next words.

 

“Thornfield is beautiful at this time of year, is it not?” Thursday said softly, absently, and Morse frowned at the non-sequitur.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“I’m sure Ireland would be no less beautiful.”

 

Words wouldn’t come, though Morse opened his mouth and tried to say them. He reached up to tug a hand through his hair, glad that Thursday was still looking out of the window, and swallowed to try and regain his voice.

 

After a minute of silence, Thursday spoke again. “Do you want the position, Morse?”

 

Morse drew in a sharp breath through his nose, and closed his feelings off as much as he could. “I cannot stay, sir.” His voice still cracked slightly. “If you believe this is the best place for me to go, then I shall go.”

 

Even outlined against the brightness of the window, Morse could make out the darkness of Thursday’s eyes staring intently at him as he turned. “But you don’t  _want_  to?”

 

“What does that have to do with it?” Morse stood in an abrupt motion which sent his chair scraping backwards to almost tip and fall. He paid it no mind, eyes stinging slightly with the effort not to let tears form. “If you are to be married then there is no place for me here.”

 

Thursday’s jaw worked for a moment as he seemed to struggle with what to say. “I don’t want you to leave, Morse.”

 

“But I _must_ ,’ Morse mumbled miserably. “I do understand that, sir. It’s just that I – _Ireland_ , sir?”

 

“You don’t like Ireland, Morse?”

 

“It’s just so far away,” Morse whispered.

 

“Far away from what?”

 

“From _here_. From England, and Thornfield, and from…”

 

“And from what, Morse?”

 

Morse pressed his lips together tightly and shook his head, his fringe obscuring his vision as he ducked his head. Of course he would go, though his heart felt like it was being starved of oxygen. _Ireland_. But of course he had to go. “Nothing, sir. Please excuse me,” he managed, voice high pitched and fragile, before turning blindly away.

 

“Morse-“ Words faded behind him as he walked swiftly out of the study, the sound of Thursday’s voice echoing in his ears, and he blocked out every thought except for finding somewhere quiet and alone.

 

He encountered no one on his path to the secluded shrubbery at the side of the house, and had never been so grateful for the small number of occupants of the hall. He would not have been fit for conversation at the moment, and could not bear for anyone to see him as he was.

 

There was a stone bench at the far end of the shrubbery, cold and hard under his thighs and hands as he sat, but at least the coldness meant that he could feel  _something_ , where the rest of his senses seemed to be blanketed in a thick fog. Slowly the sound of birdsong seeped in, as though from a great distance, and then the verdant green of the blades of grass, the leaves on the trees.

 

The plants and trees and birds, that was all he was fit company for at the moment; they would not judge the unevenness of his breath, the way he pressed a fist hard into his stomach to try and pressure the ache away.

 

How was everything still as before, how was there still beauty when his own heart was torn completely asunder?

 

The ragged sound of his own breathing penetrated the haze, and he made a conscious effort to slow it.

 

Things were no different than they had been the day before, he told himself. He was still in love with Thursday, and he still had to leave. There was just an immediacy to it now which hadn’t been there before. But nothing had changed.

 

He would move to a different country, a new place with new people, but at least he would still know that Thursday and the children were alive and well in the world, even if he could not be with them. He would have to be content with that.

 

He would be content with that. He _would_.

 

He’d barely begun to make some peace with his turbulent emotions when he looked up and found Thursday watching him from the arch at the entrance to the garden, and the sight stole the breath from him.

 

The dappled sunlight coming through the trees cast Thursday’s face half in shadow, and Morse couldn’t make out his expression. He had no idea how long Thursday had been standing there, and wished passionately that the man would have left him alone.

 

_He would never see Thursday again, never see his strong figure and broad hands, his face creased in a smile or a frown, hear his voice gently mocking or serious and deep._

 

Feeling completely unequal to conversation, Morse dropped his gaze to his own lap and focused on breathing in and out as evenly as possible. This would all be over soon. He would be in another country soon.

 

“Morse,” Thursday said, his voice so quiet and gentle that Morse almost choked on it. He was almost close enough to reach out and touch; he must have crossed the garden while Morse was lost in thought. “Morse, look at me.” It seemed like one of the most difficult things Thursday had ever asked of him, and Morse was too afraid of revealing his own feeling to obey. “Morse?”

 

“I’ve just got a headache, sir,” he said, a little faintly. “The fresh air will help.”

 

“There’s no need to lie to me, lad, I can tell when you’re upset.” Morse leaned forward, his hands gripping the cold, worn stone of the bench as though it was the only thing keeping him from folding, and refused to look up. “May I sit with you?”

 

Taking his silence as agreement, Thursday sat next to him. He was close enough that Morse could feel a faint aura of warmth coming from his direction in the gathering coolness of evening, and the warmth seemed a tangible thing that Morse could reach out and touch; an extra layer which he would reach before Thursday’s skin.

 

Morse tried not to think about Thursday’s skin.

 

“Will you tell me what’s wrong?” They sat quietly for a moment, Morse feeling on the verge of tears. “Perhaps it is the same feeling that I have, when I think of your leaving.”

 

“ _Sir_.”

 

“You’ve become such a part of Thornfield, of all our lives. Of my life. I can’t quite imagine my days without our walks and conversations, without spending the evening with you in the library.”

 

“Sir,  _please_ ,” Morse said wretchedly.

 

“If you were to go to Ireland, I feel I would be losing some part of myself, that I wouldn’t be whole anymore.”

 

It was too much; Morse lurched to his feet and took two steps away, keeping his back to Thursday.

 

“Morse?” Morse heard him stand as well, and felt him move closer until he was standing directly behind Morse. The warmth of his breath tickled the hairs at the nape of Morse’s neck, and Morse shivered. “I don’t want you to leave, Morse,” Thursday’s rasping voice came from behind, and Morse closed his eyes in despair.

 

“I have to,” he said shakily. “ _I must_.”

 

“Why must you?”

 

And these were words it was almost impossible to summon to his lips. “You’re to marry Jakes.”

 

“That’s the first I’ve heard of it,” Thursday said, and his voice was slightly wry. “You’d think someone would have told me.”

 

Morse gave a half-choked sob. “ _You_  told me.”

 

“I never did, Morse.” And now Thursday sounded serious. Broad fingers spread themselves over Morse’s shoulders, bracketing him between Thursday’s hands. He let out another hitching breath, and tried to will himself to move away. “I’m not going to marry Jakes, Morse. He was never serious in his pursuit of me, and I was merely looking for company to distract me from…”

 

The words which trailed off left Morse’s heart pounding, sudden, furious hope flashing through him. Not to marry Jakes? “I-“

 

“You know I don’t love Jakes, Morse,” Thursday murmured directly into his ear, and Morse’s knees went shamefully weak. “Why on earth would I marry the man?”

 

“But you said…”

 

“You seemed so determined to believe the rumours. I admit it was wrong of me not to disabuse you of the notion earlier, but I wasn’t sure if this was your way of finding an excuse to leave.”

 

“ _Leave_ ,” Morse gasped out the word. “Why would I want to leave? I love it here. I’ve been so happy here.”

 

“Have you?” Thursday’s lips accidentally brushed against the back of Morse’s neck, and every nerve in his body sang to attention.

 

“Yes. I – I thought maybe if you married Max instead, then the children would stay, and then I could stay too.”

 

“ _DeBryn?_ You wanted me to… But you… Oh, _Morse_.” And the low chuckle he gave puffed over Morse’s skin with tingles of sensation. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice the attention you garnered in that direction yourself?”

 

“What?”

 

“You can be very engaging when you try, Morse.” There was a light, sustained pressure against the nape of his neck. _Thursday’s lips_. Morse stopped breathing as the sensation came again. “If I’m reading this wrong, lad, tell me now.”

 

Soft lips brushed back and forth, back and forth, making any answer impossible, and Morse tilted his head forward in unspoken desire. Thursday’s breath came a little faster, and his right hand slid down Morse’s side to rest at his hip. “Morse,” he breathed, and stepped closer so that the length of their bodies was pressed together from shoulder to thigh.

 

It was absolute bliss.

 

It was completely impossible.

 

Morse wretched himself away with absolute certainty that this couldn’t be happening, that Thursday was confused, or playing some terrible trick. He turned, and examined Thursday’s face in the twilight. “What are you doing?” he asked desperately, gaze flicking rapidly between Thursday’s darkened eyes. “I don’t understand.”

 

“Don’t you? I want _you_ , Morse. You, not Jakes or DeBryn.”

 

Morse shook his head frantically, unable to take this in. “No, that can’t be right. You’re just feeling… lonely. Confused.”

 

“Telling me how I feel now, are you? First you decide who I’m going to marry, and now it’s-“

 

“No, I just, I-“ Morse ran out of words, and could only stare helplessly. Thursday’s face softened, though his eyes remained just as intent, and he careful reached for Morse’s hand to take Morse’s fingers in his own.

 

“I thought you knew,” Thursday admitted. “How I felt about you. I spend half my days with you, and  _all_  my evenings. And you seemed so… indifferent at first. Friendly, but nothing more. And then I found out you were so young.” He paused for a moment, his eyes seeking Morse’s understanding. “I went away to try and distract myself, to see if I could overcome the feeling, but it just got worse. I brought people back with me to act as a buffer, so that I wouldn’t be so… And of course I knew the gossip about me and Jakes, but neither of us had ever taken it seriously. He’s fine enough, and I enjoy spending time with him, but we’d drive each other mad in a fortnight.”

 

Morse nodded slowly. “I was so worried you’d be unhappy with him,” he whispered.

 

“Oh, Morse.” Thursday took a step closer, so that they were toe to toe, and gently exerted pressure on Morse’s hand until Morse swayed forwards. His other hand came up to keep himself from falling, landing on Thursday’s waistcoat, and the feel of finely textured fabric under his fingertips suddenly made this real.

 

“I thought… You’d said before, about how you were lonely. I thought maybe it would be a good thing, if you married again, so that you would have someone. I just didn’t want it to be Jakes.”

 

Thursday’s other arm slowly came around him and his hand rested lightly in the centre of Morse’s back. “You had DeBryn half considering a marriage proposal. I almost went out of my mind with jealousy.”

 

“Stop making fun of me.”

 

“Oh, trust me, I’m completely serious.”

 

“But he wasn’t…”

 

“In love with you? Hmm, perhaps, perhaps not, but people marry for companionship too, Morse. His parents have rather given up on him meeting anyone that meets his exacting standards for conversation, and he’s not one to marry just for convenience.”

 

“Is that what you want?” Morse asked quietly. “Companionship?”

 

“I could have that the way we are now, Morse. No, I want a lot more with you.”

 

“What do you want?”

 

“Everything,” Thursday murmured, and then he ducked his head and teased Morse’s lips with a kiss. Morse barely had time for a startled inhale before Thursday was pulling back, and the loss of it felt sharp and aching. “What do  _you_  want, Morse? Since you’ve come back, you’ve seemed – I thought maybe I had cause to…”

 

When it became clear Thursday was willing to wait him out, Morse haltingly began, “I never, that is to say, I thought…” He took a deep breath. “I love you. But I knew that there was never any-“ Thursday’s lips closed over his again, firm and unyielding, and Morse lost track of his train of thought. “ _Oh_ ,” he sighed softly as Thursday pulled away.

 

“I care about you, Morse, more than I care for anyone except my children. I love you,” Thursday said as he brushed his lips over Morse’s temple. “So you’re the only one I’ll be planning on marrying.”

 

Morse swallowed dryly. “I-“

 

“Will you marry me, Morse?”

 

“I – sir, this is madness. I’m not-“

 

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t mean it, Morse. Sometimes I feel like you’re the only thing… _Christ_ , man, just put me out of my misery and say yes or no.” He squeezed Morse’s hand gently. “But please say yes.”

 

Morse dropped his eyes for a moment, and then raised them to carefully examine Thursday’s face. Certainly he believed Thursday; trusted him too much to doubt him. But this seemed so sudden, especially for such a declaration. “Do you really mean it? Do you really want this?”

 

“Yes,” Thursday said gravely. “More than anything.”

 

“Then, sir, I will marry you.”

 

Thursday let out a breath of evident relief, then barked an exasperated laugh. “Nothing’s ever easy with you, Morse.” He drew him in again, even closer, and buried his lips in Morse’s hair. “I’ll make you so happy, Morse. So happy. It will be worth it.”

 

And Morse was too deliriously happy to wonder at the slight chill he felt at those words.


	12. Afterwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The evening after Thursday proposed to Morse, and then the day after :)

Going back to the house, everything had felt like a dream. Only the catch of Thursday’s fingers over his own as they moved through the door reminded him that this was real, that Thursday was real. That he would be Thursday’s husband.

 

“I have a few more things I have to do tonight.”

 

They halted in the hallway, and Morse gave him a shy smile. “Alright. Good evening then, sir.” The ‘sir’ caused Thursday’s lips to twitch, and he gifted Morse a look of exasperated fondness.

 

“You could call me Fred, you know?” he said wryly.

 

“I’m sure that wouldn’t be proper, sir,” Morse demurred with the slightest glance up through his eyelashes.

 

“Proper, is it? We are engaged, Morse, a great many things are proper now.” His hands cupped Morse’s elbows and drew him closer. “May I call you by your first name?” he murmured.

 

“Yes, sir. It is Endeavour,” Morse added.

 

Thursday let out a soft snort of laughter. “I know, Endeavour. Of course I know.”

 

Morse blinked, surprised. The only reason he knew Thursday’s first name was because he’d seen it written on documents; he’d often admired the even hand and sure penmanship the master displayed. How on earth did Thursday know his?

 

The question must have been written on his face, because Thursday gave him an easy smile and answered, “The children told me.”

 

“Of course,” muttered Morse. “They thought it was such an odd name.”

 

“It is unusual.” Thursday tilted his head slightly to one side in query.

 

“I – ah – apparently my mother…” Morse stuttered to a halt, speaking about his mother somehow still painful after all of this time.

 

Thursday nodded, and his thumb pressed carefully into the crease of Morse’s elbow. “ _Endeavour_ ,” he said again, and Morse found himself blushing at the way that the rich, gravelly voice caressed his name.

 

“I should be going.” His actions immediately put the lie to his words, as he took half a step forward until his knuckles brushed against the fine wool of Thursday’s waistcoat. As he breathed in he could smell the heat of the summer’s evening, fine soap and a hint of pipe tobacco. This was not something he had ever thought he could have, this closeness, and he felt suddenly as though if he stepped away now he would lose it forever.

 

“I must speak with Mr Bright,” Thursday said in a low voice, but his hands slid slowly up from Morse’s elbows to his shoulders, exerting pressure until Morse was nearly flush against him, chest to chest.

 

Morse had always felt as though Thursday was much taller than him; an effect of the man’s personality he supposed. In fact they were nearly of a height, enough that Morse only needed to tip his head slightly to look directly into Thursday’s eyes.

 

Thursday watched his every move with a slight curl of amusement to his lips, softened by the warmth in the creases around his eyes. Morse had never had such genuine affection directed at him, but found he could no longer doubt it.

 

Greatly daring, he angled his head and brushed his lips against Thursday’s cheek. There was the slightest hint of stubble, and Morse resisted the urge to turn his face and rub his cheek against Thursday’s. “I should go,” he whispered again, directly against Thursday’s skin, and he wasn’t imagining the slightly ragged breath that Thursday took in response.

 

Feeling far more at ease with this proof that he was affecting Thursday as much as Thursday was affecting him, Morse pulled away. It took a moment before Thursday’s fingers unclasped from around his shoulders, and the man’s gaze was slightly rueful. “Christ, but you could tempt a saint,” Thursday muttered, voice roughened, and then stepped back himself, putting a proper distance between them.

 

Morse couldn’t find anything to say which didn’t seem trite or too formal, that wouldn’t break this strange spell woven between them, so in the end he merely nodded and turned away. He could feel Thursday’s eyes on him the whole way to the stairs.

 

\---------------

 

The evening seemed long and dull; Morse couldn’t attend to conversation at dinner at all - he was with the servants again now that the guests had departed – and his palms itched with the need to be in Thursday’s presence, to confirm that this wasn’t all some glorious dream. Several times he realised that someone had asked him a question too late for him to be able to respond, and Mr Bright coughed disapprovingly at him more than once.

 

As soon as they were finished he retreated gracefully to his room. What was wrong with him? He pressed long fingers to flushed cheeks and wondered if he was getting sick. Was this how it felt, to be in love and to have it returned?

 

He tried to read, tried to write, and accomplished neither, sitting on his bed in a daze and relieving every moment of the day. Every few minutes his gaze would flicker to the clock on the mantel, and he would debate whether or not he should go down to the library. Should he treat this like any other day? Would Thursday be there? What if he’d changed his mind?

 

The words which Thursday had spoken earlier seemed too perfect, too long desired to have any hope of having been real. Somewhat ruefully, Morse admitted to himself that the idea of someone caring about him that much, of loving him, was so alien as to be almost incomprehensible. But still, Thursday wouldn’t lie, and had no reason to.

 

The library was dark when he finally cracked open the door, and his heart started to sink even as he told himself he was relieved. As he opened the door further, however, he could make out the edges of bookcases and chairs limned in dim red beyond the glow of his candle. The old hinges gave a familiar creak as the door swung past the two-third mark, and a voice came out of the darkness, “Is that you, Morse?”

 

His heart immediately set to thudding as though he’d run a mile. Morse scolded himself for a fool and stepped inside, nudging the bottom of the door with his foot to send it swinging closed behind him. His eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the dimmer lighting, but he could now see the dull red glow of coals in the fireplace off to the right, previously hidden behind the door.

 

“Morse?”

 

Thursday’s voice seemed to come from nowhere, which placed him either in the giant, high backed armchair or hidden among the bookcases at the far end of the room. Knowing the master’s habits Morse was willing to bet on the former.

 

“I’m here, sir.”

 

True to his prediction, a hand holding a pipe came into view resting on the side of the armchair. “Going to stand by the door all evening, are you?”

 

“No, sir,” he said with false gravity, and then stayed a moment longer to be contrary.

 

The room was warm as he made his way across it; the summer evenings were pleasant enough to not need a fire most evenings, so the added heat from one had turned the library muggy and close. Morse was pulling uncomfortably at his collar as Thursday came into view, only to find that Thursday had discarded his neck tie entirely and unbuttoned his collar and the first button of his shirt. Morse flicked his gaze away, embarrassed for a moment, and then found it drawn irresistibly back again, fascinated. He’d never seen Thursday in anything less than formal attire, except on the night of the fire – and then he hadn’t spared much attention to it. Now his eyes caught on the line of Thursday’s throat, his adam’s apple, the shadow of his collarbone, and his mind lingered on the suddenly permitted idea of  _touch_.

 

“There you are,” said Thursday with some satisfaction. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be joining me tonight; it’s getting late.”

 

However casual his words, his eyes were questioning.

 

“I had some things to… I needed a bit of time to think,” Morse admitted. “Everything was so sudden.”

 

“Sudden.” Thursday mulled this over for a minute, turning his pipe in his hands. “But not unwelcome?” he asked carefully. “You’re not regretting it, lad?”

 

“No, I could never – It’s just that I… I didn’t…” Frustrated with his lack of ability to articulate what he wanted to say, Morse turned half away and stared at the floor for a moment.

 

“It’s alright, Morse, whatever it is. You can say it.”

 

Morse snorted, though there wasn’t much amusement in the sound, and spoke to his own feet. “I’m not sure how to, sir, that’s the problem. I never-“ His voice cut out again, and his right hand formed an intemperate fist.

 

He tried again, more slowly. “I never expected this, sir. My feelings for you were – there was never any chance of reciprocation. To have braced myself to lose everything, and then to find out that you felt, that you wanted… I don’t know how to… my heart feels a little as though it might burst.”

 

Thursday hummed. The smell of tobacco smoke wafted past Morse, and he waited in an agony of indecision. “Have you ever been in love, Morse?”

 

“I – I thought I was, once. It didn’t feel anything like this,” Morse choked out.

 

“What did it feel like?”

 

The tension in him seemed to ease all at once, and Morse’s shoulder’s sagged. His fists unfurled, and he reached up to rub the back of his neck. “I was… captivated, I suppose. Enamoured on a very shallow level, whilst barely knowing the other person at all. I wanted to know more about her, to spend all my time with her, to have her attention any way I could.”

 

“And now?” The richness of Thursday’s tone sent shivers down his spine, and he resisted the urge to look at him over his shoulder.

 

“All of that. I certainly want to be near you all of the time. Not even to talk to you,” Morse shrugged uncertainly, “but just to – just to be with you. But it’s… _more_. I see things, or read them, and imagine what you will think of them, want to share them with you. When I see you, I sometimes think I can know what you’re feeling, thinking, with just a look. I feel like I understand you, that we communicate on some level I have never felt with anyone before.” He shook his head, feeling as though his weak words were unequal to conveying what he wanted, then dropped his voice to a whisper. “I think that if I knew you were happy, I would never need anything more in the world, no matter what was to become of me.”

 

“Thus your willingness to see me married off elsewhere,” Thursday commented dryly after a moment, and Morse turned with a chastisement on his tongue only to see the gentle smile on the master’s face. “Forgive me, lad, it was a poor jest.” The chair creaked in protest as Thursday rose to his feet, and he blocked out the light from the fire almost entirely as he took two steps to reach Morse’s side. “Thank you for telling me,” he murmured, voice abruptly serious.

 

“Of course, sir,” Morse said, and licked his lips involuntarily. Thursday’s gaze dipped to follow the motion, and it suddenly seemed like there wasn’t quite enough air in the room. He hesitated, but then asked, “Have you, sir?” A wrinkle appeared on Thursday’s brow, and his eyes were shadowed when they met Morse’s again. “Been in love? Since Mrs Thursday, I mean?”

 

“Since Win?” Thursday looked at him for another long moment, then pulled away; the space he left behind felt empty and cold. He settled into the armchair again, and took a puff of his pipe. Morse stayed unmoving, feeling abruptly as though he had crossed into the territory of a dangerous predator and must remain entirely still to escape undetected. “Yes, I suppose I thought I was once too. And in much the same way as you described.  _Shallow_ ,” he sneered after a moment. Seeming to remember Morse’s presence, he looked up and fixed him with a glare. “How did it end, that petty love of yours?”

 

“She was… not what I thought, sir. Not who I thought she was. Thoughtless.” And, though it burned to think the worst of her, he added, “Unkind.”

 

“Hmm. Much the same could be said of my experience, then. She was certainly not what I thought.” The words were bitter, poignant, and it was on the tip of Morse’s tongue to enquire further but he stopped, suddenly sure it would be unwelcome.

 

“I’m sorry, sir,” he offered after a minute’s awkward silence, and Thursday gave a slight grunt in reply. The fire crackled, threatening to go out entirely, and Morse took up his candle and lit the few on the mantel. Immediately the room was brighter, and the darkness engendered by their conversation was chased away.

 

Thursday seemed to feel the change too, blinking and straightening a little, and a smile twitched about his mouth. “Why are you still hovering, anyway? What does a man have to do to get his future husband to sit down with him?”

 

The impact of the words was no less of a shock than it would have been a few hours ago; Morse still hadn’t got used to the idea. “I-“

 

“You’re  _blushing!_ ” The slow amusement in Thursday’s voice turned to delight. Morse could barely meet his eyes, not knowing how to act or what to say, and a few seconds later Thursday took pity on him. “Sit down, Endeavour.”

 

Morse moved slowly to the smaller chair opposite Thursday, trying to compose himself, and gingerly took a seat. “Husband,” he repeated. “That sounds so strange.”

 

The smile faded slowly from Thursday’s face. He transferred the pipe into his left hand and leaned forward, reaching for Morse with his right. His fingers were large, warm, and slightly rough as they pressed over Morse’s, and the contact sent an unaccustomed tingle of sensation ricocheting up Morse’s arm.

 

“I had never thought to feel like this again, Morse. I had given up on finding it, given up on even the hope of it. Of deserving it. And then here you were, delivered right to me, when I was so weary of the world that I couldn’t have taken another day of it. Everything I could have ever dreamed, had I even known what to dream of.”

 

“I… You make it sound… How long have you loved me?” Morse asked finally, curious.

 

“It’s hard to say at what point curiosity and fascination and pleasure in your company turned to love, Morse. I could tell you when I first desired you-“ he apparently noted the red stealing over Morse’s cheeks, the slight tug of his hand, because he continued “but I’m sure you would consider that _most_   _improper_. And you? How long have you been in love with me then? I wish I’d realised it sooner, I’d have made less of a fool of myself.”

 

“I’m not entirely sure either. I only know when I stopped fighting it, when I allowed myself to know it about myself. That was as soon as I returned from my family,” he added, to Thursday’s enquiring look. “But I was, that is, I loved you before that. For some time.”

 

“Oh, Endeavour.” The softness of Thursday’s voice made him look up again, and Thursday gently squeezed his fingers. “It is selfish of me, but I’m glad of your love, glad to have you.”

 

“It’s not selfish, sir,” Morse protested immediately.

 

“An old thing like me, and you so young – your whole life ahead of you. And… it’s not right of me, Morse, it’s not right.” Morse opened his mouth to object again, but Thursday shook his head, firmly. “I can’t resist though – the chance to experience such joy, such pleasure. And as long as I can make you happy – you are _happy_ , aren’t you, Endeavour?”

 

“Yes, sir,” Morse said quietly, struggling to keep up with the master’s changing mood.

 

The slow, genuine smile which crept over Thursday’s face was more than enough reward, and Morse’s breath was momentarily stolen at the thought that he had been the one to put it there. He was capable of causing this man such happiness, of taking away some of his burden. “I’m so very glad to know you,” he whispered, and thought he saw the shine of unshed tears in the corners of Thursday’s eyes.

 

“And I you, Morse, and I you,” Thursday murmured.

 

He tugged on Morse’s hand, raising it to eye level, and then leaned forward to brush his lips over the back of it. Morse felt his own breath stutter to a halt as the gentlest of kisses was pressed to his knuckles, the softness of Thursday’s lips making his head spin.

 

“Sir,” he said very faintly, and then Thursday took Morse’s hand and pressed it to his cheek. Morse’s fingers twitched, wanting to touch, to caress, but with his hand held so firmly the most he could manage was to brush the backs of his fingers lightly against Thursday’s jaw, and then curl them into the hand holding them.

 

“Oh Endeavour,” Thursday sighed, and then turned to press his lips against Morse’s hand again, again, and Morse had never felt such sensations stir within him, felt his cheeks flame with desire and embarrassment.

 

“ _Sir.”_

With one last kiss Thursday released his hand, and without thinking Morse brought those fingers back to brush against his own lips, as though Thursday lingered upon them. Thursday’s eyes followed them, and Morse could describe his look in no other way than  _hungry_. Morse dropped his hand to his lap immediately, but couldn’t help but wrap his other hand around it, fingers tracing the skin which Thursday had kissed.

 

“I think perhaps it is time to retire,” Thursday suggested eventually, voice slightly hoarse. “It’s been a long day.”

 

“Yes,” Morse agreed unthinkingly, then roused himself. “Yes.” He stood, and then found himself with no notion of how to take his leave from Thursday now that they were engaged. Now that he had felt Thursday’s lips caress his skin. “ _Goodnight_ , sir.”

 

He eased into motion, expecting at any moment to be called back, to be seized and kissed passionately, and he longed for it and feared it at the same time. The light from the candles behind him cast long shadows on his steps, but the master stayed silent until he reached the door.

 

“Goodnight, Endeavour.”

 

“Goodnight.”

 

It wasn’t until he had closed the door behind him that he realised he had left his own candle in the library, and was stranded in the dark. He groped his way back to the main hallway, where there was a candle left burning, and lit another to take upstairs with him.

 

The skin on the back of his hand seemed over sensitive to every draft of air, as though Thursday had branded it somehow. As though that part of him would remember Thursday’s touch forever.

 

\---------------------------

 

Things both changed utterly and didn’t change at all. Perhaps the difference was that the changes were all within him, whereas so many of his daily routine and interactions remained the same.

 

Thursday would undoubtedly have changed them, would have had all their time together be as lovers. But the dubious expression on Mrs Fairfax’s face when she caught him after apparently being informed in the morning, and the outright disapproval and sharp comments from Mr Bright, were enough to curb some of the joyful flush of joy from Morse’s cheeks.

 

It _was_ unusual, for a man of Mr Thursday’s station and experience, to mean to marry his tutor. At least the housekeeper was circumspect, but Morse had overheard Mr Bright outright saying that it would bring down the fortune and consequence of the family, and that Thursday had much better just bed the boy a few times and be done with it.

 

Morse had fled the house with a discordant stride, cheeks flaming, and allowed himself to see past his own happiness. Servants always gossiped, always, but that didn’t mean that the words they spoke didn’t have value. What they were thinking of the master, and of Morse, was important. And if the servants were thinking it, what would Thursday’s fine friends and acquaintances think?

 

At least Morse was a man, so there would be no question of a hasty marriage being forced because he was with child.

 

And the children. Morse had hoped to be there when Thursday told them, or at least soon after, but if the  _servants_  already knew.

 

The way up to the schoolroom seemed long and winding that morning, and his hip ached faintly with every step. He didn’t think that they would outright disapprove, but he imagined it would be rather a shock. Should he seek out Thursday again first, to get some idea of their reaction?

 

In the end he just went in to the schoolroom unprepared.

 

The children were sat huddled next to each other, whispering. They looked up at his entrance, and their eyes were bright and free of tears. That at least was a relief. He supposed that at least the gossip about Thursday and Jakes had prepared them for the idea of their father being remarried to _somebody_.

 

“Father told us,” Joan said after a moment, reaching up to tug at a loose dark strand of her hair.

 

Morse nodded, at a loss as to what to say.

 

“Do you love each other, like he and my mother did?” Sam piped up.

 

After a moment’s stuttering, taken aback by such a blunt and innocent question, Morse managed to nod a reddened yes, followed by a “Very much.”

 

Sam scratched his nose, looking slightly puzzled. “Will you still teach me?”

 

“I’m, ah, I’m not quite sure yet, we haven’t worked out the details.”

 

Truth be told, he and Thursday hadn’t talked through any of the practicality of it at all. How would things work? What would he do with his time? Not sit around uselessly, surely. Teaching the children wouldn’t take up too much of his time, and he would much rather be  _useful_ , be engaged in some occupation. But he rather ruefully supposed it just wasn’t done, for the husband of someone like Mr Thursday to tutor the children. “I’ll discuss it with your father.”

 

“You two go on a lot of long walks together,” Joan observed shrewdly. “Is that when you fell in love?”

 

Morse tried to grope his way through the conversation. “In part, because we discovered we enjoy similar things. We like to walk together, and read together, but most importantly we like to talk while we’re doing those things, and about them. When you’re looking for a partner,” he began, sensing what her interest in the matter might be, for all that she was still young, “it’s important to find someone who understands you, and that you’d be happy spending each day with. It’s not always about how handsome they are,” he added wryly, knowing that certainly that hadn’t been the reason Thursday had fallen in love with  _him_.

 

“I think you’re very handsome,” she said staunchly, blushing slightly, and Sam pulled a disgusted face.

 

“When will the wedding be? Will you go away on holiday? Can we come with you?” were his questions.

 

Morse’s face broke into a boyish smile for a moment at the thought of a _wedding_ and a _wedding trip_ before he stilled it, and he crossed his arms over his chest.

 

“Your father wanted to tell you immediately, but that means now you’re asking questions I can’t answer, because we haven’t had the chance to talk about it yet.” He crouched down next to Sam, and tried to put all of his earnestness into his voice. “I promise that as soon as we make any decisions we’ll let you know, and you’ll be as involved in it as possible.” He hesitated. “I’m sure your father has already asked you, but we’d like you to be our attendants at the wedding.”

 

They nodded, pleased, and began the lesson willingly. As they left, Joan turned and asked, “Will we still be having lessons as usual until the wedding?”

 

“Yes, of course,” Morse replied, astonished. “Why wouldn’t we?”

 

She hesitated, and then mumbled something, eyes downcast. Before he could say anything she had taken Sam’s hand and dragged him from the room, and Morse was left looking after them with trepidation renewed in his stomach.

 

What was his place here, at the moment?

 

His mind pondered over the matter, pulling it back and forth, until he saw Thursday for the first time that day. It was a pleasant afternoon, and the master intercepted him heading out towards the brook.

 

“I wonder if I might join you?”

 

Morse smiled – it was rare for Thursday to ask, usually he just fell in beside Morse and started talking as though they were resuming a half finished conversation.

 

“Of course, sir,” he said, and bit his lip to hide a smile as he waited for the inevitable-

 

“Sir,” grumbled Thursday. “ _Sir_ , he calls me.  _Fred_  is quite improper. Isn’t  _sir_ more improper, Morse, between an engaged couple?”

 

The grumbling was strangely soothing to Morse – the sweet words and looks of yesterday had tipped his world askew, and he’d felt unable to right himself while Thursday looked at him though desirous eyes.

 

Grumbling and waspish humour though, he knew how to deal with that.

 

“I don’t deny that we are engaged, sir, but as my employer you are entitled to be addressed with respect,” he said teasingly, though he tried to make his voice sound serious.

 

“I thought we agreed to dispense with the formalities a long time ago, Morse.”

 

“Indeed, sir. If you would like to reintroduce them, I can start calling you  _Mr_ _Thursday_.”

 

Thursday stopped and put a hand over his eyes. Turning, Morse was surprised to see his shoulders shake, and it took a moment to make out the almost silent laughter. “Minx,” Thursday said finally. “Start calling me that, and I might have to take drastic action.”

 

“Tempted though I am to call your bluff, sir, I feel perhaps it ought not to be attempted?”

 

“Very wise, Endeavour,” Thursday murmured, and an involuntary shiver went through Morse at his tone.

 

Warm fingers stroked over his own, and Thursday’s hand gently grasped his. Morse raised his eyes to Thursday’s to find him looking at Morse with such open affection and fondness that Morse felt his heart might stop beating.

 

“Yes, sir,” he murmured back, not knowing what he was agreeing to, and Thursday’s gaze dropped to his lips. Morse licked them, and then forced himself to look away. “I talked to the children, earlier.”

 

“Did you?” Thursday’s voice was still deep and hypnotic.

 

“They had a lot of questions, and I had very few answers. When the wedding will be, what will happen afterwards. Will they get a new tutor.” Thursday had drawn closer, his face inches from Morse’s own, and Morse looked at him searchingly. “I found I had many of the same questions.”

 

“Soon,” Thursday said, in answer to the first question Morse supposed. “As soon as may be. In a few weeks is my best guess, but I shall go today to engage the priest. And you may stop tutoring the children immediately, we’ll find someone new. Then you can finally drop that ridiculous sir.”

 

He looped his free arm around Morse’s waist, and started to tug him in. Morse’s hand flew up between their bodies and pushed at his chest; he frowned at Thursday until the man reluctantly released him, keeping hold only of Morse’s hand.

 

“What is it now?” Thursday asked in exasperation.

 

“I – do you know what the servants are saying?”

 

Eyes narrowing, Thursday considered Morse. His voice was hard when he asked,”Who?”

 

“Never mind that. But it is odd, you must know that, for you to propose marriage to  _me_? And it will be such a big change, for the children. I think - I think things should stay as they are, for the moment, to show this isn’t just some passing fancy. And I will continue to teach the children – because I  _want_  to,” he said over the top of Thursday’s objection.

 

“Stay as they are?” Thursday repeated grouchily after a moment. “What does that mean?”

 

“I will teach the children as usual. We will go for walks, and sit in the library.”

 

“And this?” Thursday squeezed his hand gently. Morse tried to smile at him, but found his face locked in a lost expression.

 

“I find it hard to think, sometimes, around you,” he murmured. “I am afraid to lose myself to it entirely.”

 

Thursday’s eyes darkened, and his hand drew Morse in again.

 

“I need to know that I can still be myself, and be with you,” Morse mumbled, turning his head to the side so that soft lips brushed over his cheekbone instead, and even that made him gasp aloud.

 

“Endeavour,” Thursday said, quiet and low, and Morse trembled.

 

“I shall continue to be only the tutor, sir, until the wedding.”

 

“Not hop into bed with me, you mean?” Thursday’s voice was wry in his ear, and Morse jerked back, shocked. It wasn’t as though he’d never heard such things at university, but… “ _Ah_ , and I’ve shocked you now.” Morse blushed, and shook his head. Broad fingers carefully swept aside his fringe where it covered his eyes, and tipped up his chin when Morse stubbornly refused to look at him. “Here,  _here_.”

 

When Morse looked up, the sun glinted in Thursday’s dark eyes, and the intensity in them was almost frightening.

 

“You know I’d never dishonour you like that?” Thursday asked quietly, and Morse nodded slowly. “But we can’t act as if nothing has changed, Morse, not least because I couldn’t stand it. And it would do the children good to see us together.”

 

That made a lot of sense, especially after the conversation he’d had with them this morning. He murmured his agreement.

 

“You should start joining us for dinner. I know you’ve enjoyed having time to yourself, which is why I never pressed you before-” and here Morse stifled a snort which had Thursday looking askance at him “-but I want you there. And the children need to get to know you as someone other than their tutor.”

 

Morse nodded, arguments spent, and allowed himself to lean forward for a moment into the solid strength of Thursday’s body. His head came to rest upon the shoulder of Thursday’s jacket, and he inhaled deeply, inexplicably comforted and calmed by the scent. A hand came up to cup the back of his head, fingers tugging lightly through the strands of his hair, and he let out a pleased him.

 

“You don’t half drive me crazy, Endeavour,” Thursday said in a soft voice.

 

“I had assumed you were that way naturally, sir,” Morse muttered, and felt Thursday’s chest vibrate with laughter against him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, there was some raunchy hand-holding, but I think I can still class that as Gen ;)


	13. The Wedding

The day of the wedding dawned cloudy but bright, and Morse felt as though it had crept up upon him while he was still barely adjusted to the thought of being engaged.

 

The past three weeks had had all the qualities of a dream- he’d practically floated through each day, distracted and happy. Thursday had chuckled, asking where his serious, pensive Morse had gone, and Morse hadn’t known how to answer him.

 

His days were walking hand in hand with Thursday through the woods, seeing the small, irrepressible smiles of Sam and Joan while he taught them, sitting with the family at dinner and feeling  _home_ and  _loved_. Mostly feeling loved.

 

His wedding clothes fit perfectly – a new dark blue suit which Thursday had said would bring out his eyes. The offers of new things – pocket watches, rings, horses, carriages – he’d almost universally turned down. What would he need with a gold pocket watch, he’d asked, he was only a tutor, and Thursday had glared at him and grumbled again.

 

The image reflected back at him in the mirror almost didn’t look like him today. His red gold hair was as tame as he could make it, the usual mop carefully combed and tucked behind his ears, though his fringe still struggled to break free. His usually pale cheeks were flushed and his eyes bright. The fit of the suit was complimentary to his figure, making him seem less lanky and awkward.

 

He looked almost handsome.

 

Which made it all the more strange when Thursday barely cast a glance at him when they met at the bottom of the stairway, instead catching his hand and half dragging him out of the front door. It was only when Morse yanked hard on his hand, halfway down the gravel path to the chapel, that he slowed and turned, and sighed.

 

“Sorry, Morse, I’m all nerves today.”

 

People were supposed to be nervous on their wedding day, Morse had heard, but Thursday didn’t seem the sort. Morse wondered if  _he_ ought to be nervous, but there didn’t seem any room for that amongst the other emotions crowding his head.

 

“That’s alright,” Morse said, and smiled up at Thursday’s frowning face to try and soothe him.

 

The wrinkle between Thursday’s brows smoothed out, and he took a step back, still holding Morse’s hand possessively. His eyes slowly travelled the length of Morse, examining every inch of him, and Morse felt suddenly self-conscious.

 

“You look wonderful,” Thursday said finally, and his voice was thick with emotion.

 

“So do you, sir.” And Thursday did, in a fine black suit which seemed more fitting to visit a ballroom in, rather than the small chapel attached to the estate. There were no fancy guests coming; in fact no one but the children and Jim Strange to act as witness. So all of this finery was just for Morse.

 

He reached up a hand and tweaked the lapel of the jacket slightly, aligning it more neatly, and then let his fingers rest flat against the beat of Thursday’s heart.

 

“Shall we?” he murmured, and Thursday nodded, looking half hypnotised by Morse’s lips as they formed the words.

 

The children were waiting outside the chapel, and followed them in. Both of them dressed up; Joan in a white confection with so many skirts she was almost swallowed by them, making her look younger than she was, and Sam in his first proper suit. He’d come to Morse that morning to help him do his necktie, because he hadn’t thought the manservant had done a good enough job and he wanted it to be perfect. Morse’s heart almost ached with love for them, seeing them standing there attempting to look solomn.

 

Joan carried flowers, and as he passed by whispered quietly “I picked them this morning.”

 

The ceremony itself was simple, the pastor’s words echoing around the nearly empty pews. Morse could barely make out any of the words, so caught up in the look in Thursday’s eyes, and wondering over the reappearance of the wrinkle in his forehead. It made him want to reach out and run the pad of his thumb over it until the skin lay even and unworried.

 

No, he didn’t pay any attention at all until the priest said “If any man knows of the existence of any impediment to this marriage, let him come forward,” and there was the brisk clack of boots at the back of the room and-

 

“I declare the existence of an impediment!”

 

The only thing Morse felt at first was mild shock, because surely this person must have the wrong wedding, and as Morse turned to see the owner of the voice it was the face of a stranger. He glanced back at Thursday, wanting to raise a bemused eyebrow and see Thursday’s face crease in amusement, but the master’s face was remote and  _terrible_.

 

“Thursday?” he asked, uncertain, because Thursday still hadn’t looked, was still facing the priest.

 

“ _Continue_ ,” Thursday’s rough voice said after a moment, except it didn’t sound like his voice at all.

 

The priest hesitated, stymied. “I cannot continue without enquiring, sir.”

 

A few seconds of tense, unbearable silence passed, and then Thursday looked off to the right, where Sam and Joan stood. “Run back to the house, will you? Both of you. Wait for us there.” His tone was so final, so implacable, that not even Sam opened his mouth to protest. The two of them trailed back down the aisle, Joan’s dress rustling painfully loudly in the hush.

 

Once they were gone, Thursday slowly turned, ramrod straight, like a door revolving on it’s hinges. “Well?” he said, and his voice was iron and stone.

 

“I am Mr Briggs, sir, a lawyer from London.” Thursday made an impatient gesture, and the man continued. “You cannot marry, because you are  _already_  married.”

 

“Of course I’ve already been married,” Thursday cried. “But a man can marry again when he is a widower!”

 

“And if your wife is yet living?”

 

The pastor broke in. “I’ve never heard of a Mrs Thursday at Thornfield Hall. Not since the late Mrs Thursday, gone these ten years. And I conducted her service myself!”

 

“I have a witness,” Mr Briggs said, and turned towards the back of the chapel, where Morse could now make out a shadowy figure.

 

Thursday clearly made him out better than Morse, because he roared, “What have  _you_  to say? What the devil have  _you_  to say?”

 

The man came forward, and Morse dimly recognised him as the visitor from many months ago. The one with whom Morse had sat in the attic room, both of them bleeding and afraid.

 

“Mr Mason?” he asked quietly, but his words went unheard.

 

Mason wasn’t a stranger.

 

This wasn’t a random mistake.

 

“ _Mason_!” Thursday’s shout felt like it would shake the foundations of the chapel, and Morse felt a shudder go through him, because Thursday would not have been this angry unless…

 

“She is my sister,” came Mason’s unhappy voice. “I saw her three months ago. I have a copy of the marriage certificate here.”

 

A document was proffered, snatched, held in a tightened fist and not examined.

 

“God damn it all,” Thursday suddenly muttered, voice fading to weary and resigned. “Come up to the house, then. You too, father. Strange, you can unhitch the horses, we won’t need them today.”

 

\-------------

 

They were an odd procession going back to the house, he and Thursday in their wedding finery but marching as though they were going to a funeral, the others trailing behind them as though extras in a play they were unprepared for their part in.

 

Thursday practically growled at the children standing by the main door, standing quiet and nervous, and Morse had barely a second to gently shake his head at them before he was pulled past by Thursday’s firm grip on his elbow.

 

Up to the attics, up, up, and this was a half-familiar route taken by candlelight many months ago after a rough scream in the night. This room he recognised, and this, and then Thursday was drawing forth a key to unlock the solid door which  _something_  had come out of that terrifying night, and struck Morse down.

 

There was another empty room beyond it, and then one with a pile of sewing and a bed and chair, and then…

 

“ _Here_ , gentlemen,” Thursday said roughly. “Here is  _my wife_.”

 

Numbness crept through every vein in Morse’s body, the bewildered shock of before replaced by icy nothingness. He could not feel. Could not think. Just stood and took everything in, absorbing it to process later.

 

A dark lump lay on a plain cot, clad in a long, dirty white shift. Black, matted hair tangled around her to her waist, and on first glance Morse wouldn’t have even known the shape was a person.

 

Grace Poole had half stood out of a chair nearby, eying them suspiciously, but she subsided when the master waved his hand in her direction.

 

“Oh yes, Mason has a sister.  _Luisa_  Mason. And when I was lost in despair after Win died, and half trying to kill myself in the wars in Italy, my  _dear_   _friend_  Mason said to me ‘why don’t you come and meet my family?’” Thursday stopped, almost panting with unspent anger, and drew a hand over his brow.

 

“The whole family pushed the marriage,” he continued more quietly, “and I had little enough support from my own. And I was so…” His hands clenched into fists, his eyes shut, and he searched for words. “ _So_  desperate to find a reason to carry on. I had the children, of course, but at that point they were almost a painful reminder… And then we were married, before I even knew what was happening. Married, but what a marriage! Not two days passed before I found out she was bedding half of the encampment. Not a week, before she betrayed us, and  _her own village_ , to the enemy, on the condition of saving her own skin.”

 

Mason made a sound of grief and regret, and they all looked at him. He opened his mouth, mouthed words which he couldn’t seem to get out, and then closed his eyes in defeat.

 

It had only been a few seconds, but their distraction was enough. A roaring whirl of movement in the corner of his eye was all Morse saw before the dirty wreck of a woman was hurling herself at them, scratching wildly with clawed fingers. He took a jerky step backwards out of her range, acting without thought or direction, and watched as Thursday made a desperate grab for her arms.

 

“Grace!” the master shouted, and between them they managed to restrain the woman,  _Luisa_ , and bundle her back onto the bed. Ropes were bound around her as restraints, and she half-sat, half-lay, hissing and spitting like a wild animal.  

 

Thursday backed away, and the stare he fixed on her was full of old horror. “I took her away, after that. Only a few of us survived the attack; almost no one knew that she even  _was_  my wife. I suppose I could have left her there, but I… A few days later she tried to kill herself. Tried to kill me. I tried to get her help, but the doctors told me that she was mad. Apparently there was a predisposition for it, a long line running through Mason’s family.  _Isn’t that right_ , Mason? The whole family carefully managed the time I was allowed to spend with her before the wedding, the things I was allowed to hear of her, so that I wouldn’t know until it was too late.

 

“The doctors wanted me to lock her up, in an institution. But I went to see one. A horrible, dark pit of despair.I couldn’t. I couldn’t. The things they did to them…

 

“So I brought her here. I tried to keep the children away for most of the time. Tried to ensure she was safe, was contained. God knows I’ve failed on all counts.”

 

They stood there, Morse and the lawyer and the priest, in stunned silence. Mason had a fist to his mouth, trembling and ghostly pale, and Thursday still looked like a man half-possessed. The terrible passion seemed to have left him, though, and now the emotions raging through him looked like grief and despair.

 

“My children were all that were left to me, and I tried, God, I tried. But there is only so much a man can do with a burden like this choking him. And you,” and here his gaze fixed on Morse, sharp and sudden, “you strange, you almost _unearthly_ thing. You brought me relief, made each day somehow bearable.”

 

A rolling wave of feeling started in Morse’s chest, and he ruthlessly stamped it down. He wasn’t ready to feel. Not yet.

 

“Bigamy’s an ugly world,” muttered Thursday. “Morse had no knowledge of it, of any of this. It would have done no one any harm, and we could have been happy, all of us,  _happy_. But fate has interfered.

 

“Out with you now.  _Out!_ ” The last word barked so harshly that they immediately backed to the door and out.

 

Morse didn’t wait to see the other’s faces, to hear what they might say. It was of no interest to him. Very little was of interest to him at that moment.

 

There was the way that the world had been before, and the way that it was now. And since the latter was what was true, he would have to find some way of adapting to it.

 

He walked very slowly down the stairs, but only made it around one more corner before having to stop and lean against the wall heavily, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. His head bowed, and he felt the sting of tears in the corner of his eyes, felt his breath start to come short.

 

“Mr Morse,” came a voice behind him, and he clamped down on himself and straightened again.

 

It was the lawyer. “Mr Briggs?

 

The man nodded gravely. “No blame is attached to you, of course, Mr Morse. I can only imagine what you must be feeling, to be spared from such a-“

 

“ _Enough_ ,” Morse said, and was surprised to find such fire in his voice. He didn’t feel it, the cold numbness having blanketed him again. “What do you want?” he asked more slowly.

 

The lawyer hesitated.  “I was contracted by Mr Mason after he heard from a Mrs Morse that her stepson was to be married – most advantageously.”

 

“Mrs Morse,” Morse whispered to himself, mutely astonished.  _His stepmother_?

 

“Apparently you wrote your sister about the marriage?” Morse closed his eyes in weary understanding and nodded. “Well, of course Mason knew that Thursday was already married. He told Mrs Morse-“ and Morse squeezed his eyes shut tighter at the thought of  _that_  conversation “-and hastened to contact me and stop the marriage.”

 

Morse nodded, his mind miles away.

 

“Do you wish me to contact your family, and assure them that you are safe?”

 

“What?” Morse glanced up, blinking and startled. “No. No, thank you, I need nothing more from you.”

 

And he walked away, one foot placed carefully in front of the other, aware that the world was still turning but not knowing how to turn with it anymore.

 

\----------------

 

His room looked exactly as he had left it that morning. No one had been in to tidy it, and he had been less neat than usual in his excitement.

 

His nightclothes lay carelessly discarded on the floor, his shaving kit still laid out on the side.

 

Only an hour ago, two, he’d been in this room and been about to be married to the man that he loved. It had seemed warm then, a glossy part of Thornfield which he occupied, in which he knew he belonged.

 

Now the room was cold despite the embers of the morning’s fire. The brightness from the window seemed harsh and chilling.

 

He sat on the edge of the bed, and the covers gave beneath him with a soft, downy sigh. His hands folded themselves in his lap, and he found himself rubbing the spot on the back of his hand which Thursday had first kissed weeks ago.

 

It was sometime later when he stood again; he knew that time had passed only due to the shifting shadows cast from the light of the window. Hours must have gone by, though they had felt like mere minutes.

 

Carefully, mechanically, he stripped off the dark blue finery that he had put on with such joyful anticipation that morning. The fabric was smooth and pleasant to touch under his fingers, and he folded it as though doing so was a ritual which had to be observed exactly.

 

He changed into his usual clothes for the day – inexpensive charcoal wool trousers, a shirt not poorly made but rough enough that his fingers caught on the fabric, and a jacket which didn’t quite fit right in the back because the tailor had made it in a hurry during his short stay at his family’s house.

 

Losing Thursday like this felt much worse than losing his father.

 

He carefully set the wedding suit aside on top of his chest of drawers, and then assumed his previous position on the edge of the bed again. He hadn’t quite managed to sort his way through the painful shards of knowledge he now possessed, still didn’t know how to deal with them, so it was better to sit here and let his mind drift and whir, and his heart try to shore up some kind of foundation so that he could go on functioning.

 

The next time he stirred it was dark, and there was only dim moonlight coming in through the window. His mind muzzily realised that the day had passed, it was night, and nothing had changed or been resolved. He couldn’t stay here forever.

 

A wave of dizziness swept over him as he got to his feet, and he realised he hadn’t eaten since the night before, having been far too excited in the morning to even think of food.

 

There should have been a wedding breakfast, at an inn somewhere along their route.

 

They would have eaten together as husbands, and Morse would never have known that it was a lie, that they weren’t really married at all.

 

The jug of water sat empty on the stand, and Morse traced an uncomprehending finger around the rim. His mouth and throat were dry and parched, making it hard to swallow. After leaning against the nightstand for a moment to steady himself, his brain slowly clicked into focus on this new goal. He needed to get some water.

 

The door opened towards him with a slight creak, and his eyes were still struggling to adjust to a dim light in the hallway when his shins came in contact with an obstacle and he fell helplessly, heedlessly forwards, crumpling in on himself. Strong arms caught him, gathered him in, held him against warmth and the earthy smell of Thursday, and he half-lay against him without the slightest strength or inclination to stand for a minute.

 

Shapes finally resolved themselves in his blurred vision again, the small halo of light becoming a candle, the dark burr in front of him becoming Thursday’s chest, the pressure in his hair recognised as Thursday’s fingers combing through it.

 

A sharp breath, and he drew back, fumbling to stand. Thursday’s hands reluctantly withdrew, not letting go until Morse was upright and half-clutching the doorframe to remain that way.

 

Thursday had positioned himself in a chair outside Morse’s door, long legs outstretched across Morse’s threshold; it was these which Morse had fallen against. He was staring at Morse now, lips parted, hands still outstretched and reaching.

 

Morse turned blindly away, not sure how to deal with a Thursday who was soft, concerned looks and gentleness after the events of the day. The corridor seemed to stretch dark and endless in front of him, but he pushed away from the doorframe and set off down it, clinging to his one safe thought.

 

Water.

 

He hadn’t made it more than a few yards before firm fingers caught at his elbow, his shoulder, tried to turn him.

 

“Morse,” was whispered against his hair. “ _Endeavour_. Look at me.”

 

But he would not turn.

 

“Look at me, Morse, talk to me. You shut yourself up, grieving alone.” Thursday sighed, breath ruffling Morse’s hair. “I wanted to be with you, to comfort you,” he murmured roughly. “I didn’t want you to go through this alone.”

 

His hand on Morse’s shoulder held Morse in place as he circled him, the pressure of it almost making weak knees buckle. Keen eyes searched his face, but Morse would not meet them, would  _not_  look, and this time Thursday’s sigh was harsh.

 

“You’ve not cried at all. Was this nothing to you then? Was _I_ nothing to you?”

 

Fingers squeezed next to Morse’s collarbone, almost painfully tight, and Morse managed a quiet “ _Sir_.” They eased slightly, and Morse reached up to clumsily push them away, his own gesture weaker than he would have liked.

 

Water.

 

“I’m thirsty, sir,” he managed, and was too far gone to be ashamed of the way his voice trembled. “Tired and thirsty, and I need to-“

 

And his vision greyed and sharpened and greyed again, and the corridor dimmed, and the last thing he was aware of was Thursday’s arms clamping tightly around him as he fell again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, who guessed? I can't help myself from villainizing Luisa at every opportunity, it's true.
> 
> A lot of this chapter is very similar to Jane Eyre, but still different enough to be interesting I hope. Now that we've got through this plot point, things will diverge a bit more again.


	14. An Invisible Force

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We wouldn’t have been married,” Morse interjected, and his voice was brittle.
> 
> “Of course we would,” Thursday said in a low voice. “In every way that mattered. I would have been yours, and you mine. What’s the difference, then?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I confess that I didn't think I'd be coming back to this one. But then I started the audiobook of Jane Eyre, and thought, oh, hey, I should go back and reread that fic I was writing, and then whoosh the plot demons swept away with me again. And so, therefore...

“Morse? Morse. _Endeavour_.”

 

Morse wet his lips and found the unexpected tang of alcohol there. He swallowed, unaware that he’d even taken a sip until there was a burning sensation in his throat.

 

“Can you open your eyes?” Thursday’s voice again. Such concern, such _tenderness_. Morse tried to weave that into his understanding, tried to fix on a course of action before he did as he was asked.

 

“Endeavour?”

 

He took a long, shallow breath and opened his eyes. Thursday’s face hovered mere inches away, fierce and sombre all at once, and so, so beloved. Morse drank the sight of him in, the lines of his face, the shadows in his eyes, and then he hardened his heart and pushed Thursday’s hand away as it brought the drink to his lips again.

 

“Have a bit more brandy,” Thursday said coaxingly. “It’ll do you good.” But Morse shook his head, and with a sigh Thursday turned from him to place the glass on a nearby table.

 

It gave Morse enough space to straighten a little in the chair he found himself in. A swift glance around was enough to announce the room familiar to him, though he hadn’t been here since the night of the fire. The master’s bedchamber. It made sense, of course – it would have been the nearest room with something Thursday could use to revive him, since Morse kept no alcohol in his own. Even so, his nerves thrilled with the faintest edge of danger, of the fact that this was not a good place to plant his feet and make a stand.

 

“How are you feeling now?” Thursday asked, back to crouch in front of him.

 

“Better.” Morse rubbed a hand across his face, then up into his hair. “Could I have some water?”

 

Thursday seemed to hang upon his every word. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, of course – you said, didn’t you?” He poured a glassful and pressed it into Morse’s hands, his own fingers stroking over the backs of Morse’s as he took it. The glass was cool to Morse’s touch, and the bead of water that ran down the side onto his skin felt like ice. “I don’t know what I was thinking, before. Raging on at you while you weren’t feeling well.” Thursday looked at him worriedly.

 

Every natural inclination cried out for Morse to touch him – to reach out and sooth and reassure. That wasn’t possible. Morse looked down, instead, studied the ripples in the water caused by unsteady hands.

 

“Won’t you talk to me? Endeavour?” After a moment, Thursday loosed a sigh. “Not that I don’t deserve it, misleading you as I have.” He seemed to wait again for some response, and grew agitated when he received none. “I would have told you. Once we were married and you-“

 

“We wouldn’t have _been_ married,” Morse interjected, and his voice was brittle.

 

Thursday drew close again, tried to take Morse’s free hand. At first Morse contracted it into a fist, pulling away with a grimace, but Thursday persisted – drawing the clenched fingers between both of his own hands. Morse sighed and relaxed his hand; immediately Thursday was caressing each of his fingers, looking down at them wonderingly.

 

“Of course we would,” Thursday said in a low voice. “In every way that mattered. I would have been yours, and you mine.  What’s the difference, then?”

 

Morse stared at him for a moment, simultaneously stunned by the simplicity of this view and aching with empathy for someone so desperate to experience love again.

 

Taking his silence for acquiescence, Thursday reached out and cupped his shoulder. “Come here,” he said, and tugged Morse towards him as if to hold him.

 

Morse went as stiff as a board and leant backwards with all of the weary strength left to him.

 

“What’s this?” said Thursday, but his voice was almost amused, as though Morse was playing a game with him and he thought it was endearing.

 

“Let go of me,” said Morse, and his voice was sudden ice and fire. Drawing back, Thursday studied his face then opened his mouth as if to speak. This time, Morse did not let him. “Sir, you are already _married_.”

 

Thursday drew back further; Morse had wounded him, he could see. Taking the opportunity, Morse rose to his feet and found himself steady again. The new pulse of anger, indignation and, yes, love, beating through his body gave him energy, and he took a quick step to the side, out of Thursday’s reach. The glass was set down on the table, beside the smaller one full of amber liquid which must have been the brandy from earlier. Morse deliberately didn’t look at Thursday, even though his eyes felt pulled in that direction; as though he were a compass needle and Thursday his North.

 

He didn’t have to see Thursday’s face to picture the dark expression on it as the master began to speak. “ _Still_ you would call me married?”

 

“Yes,” Morse said quietly.

 

“Even after you have seen her? Even after you know-“ Thursday seemed to choke back the words, but the emotion in his voice, the distress, was enough to finally move Morse towards him, to draw his gaze.

 

Thursday stood in front of him, tall and strong still but somehow defeated. Lessened. He was still in the suit he had worn for their wedding ceremony, the clean black lines of it now looking ominous and severe. His hair was in disarray, and Morse could instantly picture him running his hands through it over and over as he paced back and forth outside Morse’s room, neglecting everything else. Every _one_ else.

 

Oh God, Morse thought. The children.

 

“The children?” he said aloud.

 

Thursday’s eyes, which had been fixed on him avidly since he started to approach, closed for a moment. “Yes,” he said with a sigh. “We’ll talk to them in the morning. Explain what will happen now.”

 

“What will happen now,” Morse repeated. He wasn’t sure what Thursday meant, nor how it should be explained to the children at all. Better to leave them in ignorance instead, and just tell them Morse had gone away.

 

“Yes,” Thursday said, and seemed seized by some strange energy. He took another step towards Morse. “There’s a villa in the south of France. Or one in Spain – you’d like Spain, I think. And the children liked it there. We could leave tomorrow, and-“

 

“You mean for me to go with you?” Morse asked, barely following.

 

Thursday stopped, completely still for a moment. Then, “Of course you’ll come with me, Morse.”

 

And suddenly Morse saw the difference in their understanding of matters. Something twisted deep within his chest.

 

He shook his head.

 

“What do you mean, no? Why do you shake your head?”

 

Remaining still was more difficult than he’d imagined possible. Morse stared determinedly at Thursday’s chin, and focused on slowing his heartbeat. Breathe in. Breathe out.

 

“Morse. Endeavour. You’ll come with me. We’ll go away, and live as a family, as we should be.”

 

An ache spread from somewhere deep within Morse’s breastbone. Funny, he thought; he hadn’t thought that this could hurt any more than it did already.

 

Thursday drew a step closer, and his voice rose at Morse’s lack of response. “We’ll be together. You’ll be my _husband_ , Morse. You _are_ my husband, damned what the law has to say about it.”

 

Finally Morse found his voice. “No, sir.”

 

“No?” Thursday said incredulously. “ _No_?” Another step closer, and he gripped Morse by the upper arms, hands squeezing tightly. “You don’t want us to be together? But you love me – _Morse, tell me you love me!_ ”

 

Morse’s breath hitched traitorously, hitched again. He swallowed, hard, but his eyes met Thursday’s glinting stare and he was lost. “I _do_ love you,” he admitted wretchedly, then immediately regretted it. How would that help matters at all, when he had to separate himself? “But I can’t – sir, you know that I must go…”

 

The bewilderment, the heartwrenching pain spreading across Thursday’s face was difficult to withstand. “Go?” Thursday repeated disconsolately. And then his voice thundered. “ _Go?_ ”

 

The grip on Morse’s shoulders tightened, as though trying to cage him, and Thursday shook him once as though about to fly into a rage. Almost as soon as he’d done it, the master’s rough breathing evened out again. His fingers loosened and began to massage small circles on Morse’s shoulders.

 

It was a touch Morse would have once longed for; now he closed his eyes and tried to shut out the sensation.

 

“Where would you go, Endeavour? Why would you leave me? Your home is with me, with _us_.”

 

The truth of it sang within Morse’s blood – he would never be happy anywhere else the way he had been here. He knew that it was true, and yet knew that he could not stay. Not even in another country, where nobody would know them.

 

He would know.

 

For a moment he wondered if things might have been different, had Thursday been honest with him from the start. If the master had confessed his love but admitted that he was already married – shared the truth and hope and desperation within him – could things have been different? He thought again of their conversation where Thursday asked if it was permissible to circumvent human law to obtain happiness, and wasn’t as sure of his own answer, now. It wasn’t for religious reasons that he needed to be married to Thursday, but the idea of being the man’s mistress was abhorrent to him. No matter what Thursday thought about them being married in truth, Morse was sure that at some point things would fall apart like this. And Morse knew that he would be unhappy if he went away with Thursday to his villa in Spain, despite the pleasures of Thursday’s love and company. It would be incomplete; a shadow of what he should have had.

 

And so he drew back a step, and said again, “No.”

 

Thursday had moved with him, kept moving until he took Morse into his arms and pulled him close against himself. Morse forced himself to stay stiff, unresponsive, but the warmth of Thursday seeped through to him and some part of his mind whispered ‘ _yes_.’

 

“No?” Thursday murmured, his lips pressed against the side of Morse’s head. His hands swept gently down Morse’s back, then up again, and Morse had to supress a shudder at the touch.

 

_He would never feel Thursday’s touch again_. 

 

“No,” Morse whispered. Only when he heard the word did he know for certain that he’d managed to say the right one.

 

A kiss was pressed against his hair. Another. Thursday breathed him in for a moment, then slowly rubbed his cheek against the side of Morse’s head. “And now?” he murmured.

 

“I cannot, sir,” Morse managed, but his voice wavered.

 

Another kiss to his hair, another, trailing downwards. Thursday’s hands had come to rest in the small of Morse’s back, exerting inexorable pressure to bring him in, little by little, and now the whole length of Morse was almost flush with Thursday’s body. Morse made a small, soft noise as Thursday’s lips grazed the tip of his ear.

 

“You mean to go your way in the world, and have me go mine?”

 

“Yes, sir,” Morse said, almost incoherent at the feel of Thursday’s breath brushing over his ear.

 

“And to never see me again?” Thursday took the very tip of Morse’s earlobe in his teeth.

 

“Yes, sir,” Morse said faintly.

 

Thursday kissed the top of his ear gently, and Morse felt his knees weaken. “Never feel this again?” Thursday asked roughly, and Morse found he could no longer speak.

 

Drawing back just enough for Morse to see his face, Thursday’s eyes dropped to his lips with heavy inevitability. Morse felt the same desire as always, even more aching and poignant now, and God, how he wanted to give in. Four steps to the bed, five? They could be together this night just as he’d imagined, as he’d been waiting for. He had no doubt that the heat between them would be every bit as passionate as he’d dreamed.

 

But it wouldn’t be right, some small inner part of him whispered.

 

Thursday started to lean in, and Morse’s lips tingled in anticipation.

 

_It wouldn’t be right_ , that part of him insisted again.

 

A pang of sorrow, remorse - _devastation_ \- rippled through him.

 

He turned his face away.

 

Thursday’s lips glanced off his cheek, catching on the slight stubble grown in since the morning. They stopped there, cheek to cheek, Thursday panting at the sudden denial.

 

“No?” he rasped in Morse’s ear, and his voice was low and dangerous.

 

Morse didn’t answer, couldn’t do anything but stare blindly across the room at the expensive, fine hangings and furniture.

 

_This was never your world_ , that inner part of him said. _You don’t belong here_.

 

He felt fury tense in Thursday’s muscles; waited to be shaken again, to be remonstrated with and accused. It eased as quickly as it had come, though, and once again Thursday moved to tuck Morse’s face against his neck and to press his lips gently against his hair. He swayed slightly on his feet from side to side; a pale mimicry of comfort, of dancing. Pressed against Thursday’s neck, Morse’s lips parted on a shaky exhale and he felt the threat of tears.

 

“How can I live like this?” Thursday said mournfully. His tone pulled harshly at Morse’s heart. “Without you, when you’re more precious to me than almost anything? You mean for me to go back to having no meaning in my life, no light?”

 

Morse desperately attempted to steady his own breathing. “You will have the children,” he said. “They love you, and they need you.”

 

“It’s not the same,” Thursday said fiercely. “You know it’s not the same. I need _you_. I need this.” And Morse remembered countless nights in the library; their conversations and the way they had brought solace to Thursday. It _wasn’t_ the same, he knew that to be true, but nonetheless he hoped that caring for his children would bring some measure of peace to Thursday.

 

“Stay with me, Endeavour.” Thursday’s voice had turned pleading, almost begging, and Morse compelled his heart to harden again. “Please, love, stay with me.”

 

Morse drew back slowly, drawing an inner breath of relief when Thursday released him without protest. He took one step back, another, and Thursday’s arms remained slightly outstretched as if waiting for him to return.

 

Morse turned, made it once step towards the door, another.

 

“Endeavour,” he heard whispered behind him, and then the sound of a harsh, shuddering inhale, a half-sobbed exhale. Morse stopped, feet rooted to the floor by some invisible force, and in that moment almost cast it all aside; all his principles, all of his moral fortitude and certainty crumbled within him. He stood and listened to the sound of the man he loved in pain – true pain, pain that he could ease. His heart thudded and cold fire raced up and down his veins.

 

Hardly knowing what he was doing, he half turned. Thursday had his head buried in one hand, shoulders shaking as he was overcome by emotion. He must have caught Morse’s turn from the corner of his eye though, because he looked up – his face flushing and his eye gleaming with renewed hope. “Endeavour,” he said, voice roughened and fragile, and his hand reached out as though to capture Morse, to keep him with him.

 

Everything in Morse wanted to go to him, to be held and sheltered and safe and loved. To console this man, to love him and comfort him and be with him forever. Surely _that_ was right, surely.

 

A heartbeat passed, two, and the light in Thursday’s eyes dimmed.

 

“I wish you every happiness, sir,” Morse whispered, and then he left.

 

\-------------------------

 

He made it back to his room somehow; he didn’t remember the journey. Didn’t remember passing through either door, or the passageway in between. But here he was, staring at his wardrobe door, forcing himself to open it and consider his worldly possessions.

 

He didn’t have much.

 

The two suits he’d had made at his father’s house – he was wearing one of them. The book from Mr Temple, and a few more that had been lover’s gifts from Thursday.

 

The ones from Thursday he left behind.

 

He left in the pre-dawn mist carrying nothing but a small parcel of his belongings and the two pounds he still had remaining from Thursday’s advance from his wages. He couldn’t stay here, not and have to face Thursday’s marshalled offensive in the morning, not and have to face the children.

 

He caught the coach that passed through the village at six in the morning. A quick glance in the window revealed there was space for him, though there were already two drowsy looking occupants. He paid the coachmaster twelve shillings to get him as far as that would take him. He would need the rest of the money for a meal and lodgings for a day or two.

 

A day or two. His plans didn’t go beyond that. His heart and mind were in agreement in being utterly unable to think of anything else past _away_.

 

He took the step up to the coach, settling himself awkwardly to sit pressed up against a large woman on the cold wooden bench inside, and could see nothing in the direction he’d come aside from mist and the vague outline of dark trees.

 

Goodbye, Thornfield, he thought. _Goodbye, Thursday_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I upped the rating from Gen because now there's, uh, ear kissing *waggles eyebrows*
> 
> Also, I noticed on rereading up to this point that I can’t make Thursday Thursday unless I completely abandon any trace of regency speech. So I’m going to continue doing that without remorse. You know, since historical accuracy has been so important up to this point.


	15. Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What a fool I was,” Morse said aloud.

Morse knew geography, yes, but little enough of the smaller towns and villages in England outside of the range of his travels. When the coachman rapped upon the side of the carriage and said he had to get off at this stop, Whitcross, he knew nothing but that they were further north than they had been – about six hours travel further north. He’d agreed to the named stop upon handing his money over assuming it would be a village or town, but glancing out of the window Morse saw nothing but endless rolling hills and a cold, bleak horizon.

 

Flustered, he scrambled down from the coach, his movements stiff and ungainly. Rounding the coach, he found the other side showed no more welcoming a sight – he was standing in the middle of a crossroads, the road a dirty white colour from the chalk which must be prevalent in these hills.

 

He opened his mouth to request to be taken further, but the coach was already rolling on. And really, wasn’t this as good a place as any? No one would suspect to find him here, and he could easily walk to the nearest village. He sighed and crossed his arms across his chest, staring out at the sparse purple gorse coating the hillside.

 

It took only seconds for the next thought to strike him, for a panicked clench of cold in his stomach, and then he took three abortive steps after the coach and called out. They didn’t stop, already too far off to hear him, and he watched the last of his possessions and all of his remaining money roll away from him. He’d left the parcel on his seat, thinking to just have a look around for a moment, and then completely forgotten it. God, he was a fool. What was he doing?

 

Morse prized his ability to think and reason above most other things, and now found that they had abandoned him. Here he was, just trying to make it to the next minute, trying so hard _not_ to think.

 

What on earth would he do now? He had no money, and no way of obtaining a reference to get work. There was no one on the earth who would take him in, and he had little enough to recommend him.

 

He stood at the crossroads for perhaps an hour, lost in circular thoughts and a certain amount of what he would have to admit was self-pity. He’d been half hoping another coach would come along, that he could explain his circumstances and ask for a lift, but the road remained empty and desolate. Clearly this was not a well-travelled route.

 

He might have stood there for longer, but the area was exposed and the wind truly biting. The cold cut through his thin suit and chafed at his skin, making him wish longingly for a warm fireside.

 

Only twelve hours ago Thursday held you in his arms, his mind whispered traitorously. You were warm there. You could go back – you’d be welcomed in an instant.

 

Morse picked a direction – a weather beaten sign for Kendelford pointing the way. He could just make out the 4.4 miles written underneath; it should only take a couple of hours.

 

The problem was, he reflected as he set out on the uneven road, that yes, he _would_ be welcomed back in an instant. Joan and Sam would be pleased to have him back – he was sure enough of their affection – and Thursday…

 

Thursday.

 

If Morse went back now he felt as though Thursday would overwhelm him, subsume him, and Morse would have no will of his own anymore. Thursday had frightened him a little, the night before, with his fury, his passion. Not because he thought Thursday would have harmed him, but rather because he felt his own will bending with the need to give in. Thursday had always had a forceful personality, but he’d never directed it quite so at Morse before, and Morse had been chagrined to almost find his own character wanting in being able to resist.

 

The desperation in Thursday had been what made Morse think he had to leave in secret, because otherwise doubtless the man would do anything to convince Morse to stay. For the entire journey Morse had been unable to rest or relax, waiting in eerie tension for the beat of hooves behind them, for the master’s voice calling for the coach to stop. And he’d _wanted_ it, wanted it with a fierceness which shamed him. He wanted for Thursday to chase him, to claim him as his lover, as part of his family and say to hell with the world. He wanted to know he meant that much to the other man - even though he knew already that he did.

 

He hoped that he meant even more than that, enough that Thursday would let him go.

 

His feet stumbled over the stony road as he trudged on, lost in his thoughts. Then over the stony path, and finally, over moss covered rocks.

 

Morse drew to a halt, and surveyed his surroundings. Back behind him was the narrow grey-white of the road curving off into the distance. It faded into a more uneven, thinner path, over the edges of which nature was struggling to reclaim her territory, and now, where he stood, had given up the battle entirely. Perhaps there had used to be a road here, some time ago, but there was nothing now.

 

He retraced his steps to the last bit he could charitably call road, and saw a rusted gate sat in the crumbling stone wall off on the left. The wall came up to his waist, maybe, and seemed to border nothing in particular – an overgrown field left to become derelict. There was no farmhouse that he could see.

 

He thought of going back to the crossroads, of choosing another route, and his legs felt weary at the very thought. There was no way to know what time it was, but the sun had passed its zenith and was warm in the sky; it would have been a pleasant day for September were it not for the cutting wind still flapping at his clothes.

 

He squinted off into the distance, scrunching his face up against the glare as his hair was blown this way and that.

 

Well, the road must have led somewhere.

 

Aware that he was possibly making a foolish decision, Morse continued on in the direction that the path must have led. It was harder going now, the ground more treacherous underfoot, and twice he nearly fell in the small holes which pock-marked the earth, presumably left by some burrowing creature or another. That would be all he needed, to twist his ankle!

 

The way went on, and on, and he crested a hill and found another; resting his hands on his hips as he caught his breath and stubbornly refused to turn back. It wasn’t worth it now, he wouldn’t reach the crossroads before night fell. He plunged on, his mind numb from the endless whirl of thoughts, his feet finding their own path as he lost all track of time.

 

As the sun set he sloped down the side of a hill and into a small valley, finding it sheltered from the wind. He couldn’t help but feel that he could have passed two or three villages amongst the hills and never known it, or that he could have been wandering lost in endless circles and never known that either. Strangely, he found that he didn’t care. Surely his whole purpose in walking had been to find somewhere safe to rest, to eat – and God, this was the second day he hadn’t eaten, hunger was _clawing_ at his belly – and yet, now that he hadn’t, he was strangely content.

 

 _This is what I deserve_ , came the thought, and he could not refute it. How blind had he been, how _stupid_? Rich men are not accustomed to marry their tutors – the words Mrs Fairfax had at one point spoken after discovering their engagement resounded in his head. And all the times Morse had let things go – after he had tried to confront Thursday about the fire, the attack on Mason and himself, the presence of Grace Poole. Each time he had let himself be comforted, let himself be persuaded; because he had wanted to be. He had wanted to believe that everything had been taken care of, that there was no disturbing mystery at the hall to upset his cosy little existence. He had been too in love, too blind, to think there anything suspicious in Thursday’s haste at arranging the marriage, to see anything odd in his secrecy.

 

 _And all of my vaunted skill at observation and reasoning has come to this_.

 

He found a rock covered in moss which had dried in the afternoon sun. It was soft when he sat down upon it, and without the wind blustering it was a pleasant enough evening. They were in the last days of September, but the weather had stayed warm and mild for longer than most years; he was glad of it now.

 

He sat still on the rock for so long that the wildlife came out again around him, rabbits, squirrels and small birds resuming their evening activities. “What a fool I was,” he said aloud, and all of the movement around him ceased and then vanished.

 

He lowered himself to the rock, lying on his back with his head pillowed on his jacket.

 

The worst was the not-knowing. How was Thursday? He would not have taken Morse’s disappearance calmly; he would have felt betrayed. Abandoned. Morse closed his eyes tightly and felt a tear slip wet across his cheek, felt the cooling autumn air dry the skin in its wake.

 

He wanted Thursday, and knew it to be his own fault that they were parted; that he had cruelly inflicted this separation upon them both. Once again he dwelt on the things he would never have again, the gentle touches and heated looks, the teasing and the _understanding_.

 

Another tear slid down next to his temple, and then he curled onto his side, arms clasped around his chest as he desperately tried to keep from falling apart entirely. He breathed in hoarse gasps as though he couldn’t get enough air, gulping back any attempt his body made to release his feelings. He couldn’t catch his breath and he was almost wheezing now, feeling a fit of panic and grief rise up to swallow him. He gasped another breath and then held it, refusing to breathe out, refusing to give in. His face went red, and his chest heaved with the need to breath, to sob, but he denied it. Until finally, finally, he let the air out in a long gust and lay still and spent, as though all of his emotions had gone with it.

 

\-------------------------

 

His night on the rock had not been particularly restful, though this was due just as much to turbulence of thought as the hard surface of his bed. Until that night he hadn’t realised how accustomed he’d become to luxury; certainly at Highwood his bed had been just as hard and uncomfortable – just as cold, for that matter - and usually two to a tiny bed when they were younger. Now he longed for his bed at Thornfield, for its downy pillows and warm blankets.

 

When he woke, he was covered in a fine layer of dew. It sparkled on his eyelashes as he blinked, dazzling him for a moment with the light of the morning sun. He got up and shook himself off, and the roiling emotions of the previous night seemed like a bad dream – one that he couldn’t quite remember.

 

He straightened out his jacket but decided not to wear it. It had stayed miraculously clean during his wandering the day before, but he needed to keep it so in order to have any chance of appearing respectable. There was a thin trickle of a stream running its way down the valley which he had availed himself of the night before – he once again filled his belly with the sweet water and scrubbed his hands and face in it. The stream seemed as good a thing as any to follow, and he couldn’t see any of the world now that he was down in the wooded valley, so he traced it downwards until he broke out of the treeline, careful not to slip on any of the mossy rocks underfoot.

 

As soon as he was clear of the trees, he ran into another stone wall; one in better repair this time. Beyond it was a small flock of sheep, and in the distance the sight of smoke rising from houses. His stomach twinged in anxious hunger, and he offered a quick prayer as he set off towards the village.

 

And it _was_ a village, not just an isolated farmhouse. People were already out and about their business, shopping in the small square or getting water from the well. Several of them glanced askance at Morse as he passed, and he realised he had no idea what he looked like, what sort of state he was in. He paused at a gap between farmers watering their animals at the trough, and glanced down at his reflection. The image wavered and then broke as a horse plunged its nose into the water, but it had been enough for Morse to see there was nothing particularly wrong with it aside from his hair being a mess; he reached up and futilely tried to smooth it down. No, people must be staring because he was a stranger, and they presumably didn’t get many of those.

 

The baker’s called to him from across the square, an indescribably delicious odour and the shining promise of glazed buns in the window. He stared through the pane for a moment, feasting his eyes, and then caught the door to go inside just as someone else was leaving.

 

“Help you?” said the man behind the counter. He looked kindly enough, flour dusting his apron.

 

Morse fixed a smile on his face. “I don’t have any money,” he said. “But I was wondering if I could-“

 

The man shook his head.

 

“I could do some work, to pay for it?” Morse said desperately. “Anything you need.”

 

This time he got a longer look, and then the man shook his head again. “There’s no work for you here,” he said.

 

The small spark of hope in Morse’s chest, unknowingly fanned when he’d seen the bread in the windows, guttered out again. “What about in the rest of the village?” he asked more despairingly. “Does anyone need anything?”

 

The man shook his head again.

 

“Please,” Morse said. “I’m so hungry.” His voice almost broke on the last word.

 

“I won’t have beggers here,” the man said more sternly. “Out with you!”

 

And Morse would have begged; would have, in that moment, truly done anything for a crust of that bread. Two days without food, and no prospect of it to come, will turn most men to animals. But his dignity steeled itself inside him and made him walk out of the shop, made him sit on a bench and observe the town go by.

 

Later in the day, he followed the owner of the bakery back to his house and watched him tip a few burnt scraps of bread and slops into a bucket for the pigs in the yard. Morse waited, heart hammering, and as soon as the man had gone back inside he bolted for the bucket, grabbing up a piece of bread and running low and quiet back the way he had come.

 

That burnt end of a loaf tasted better than any meal he had ever eaten.

 

\-----------------------

 

Morse had never experienced poverty, not really. His step-mother might have treated him more like a servant for some of his childhood, and Highwood deprived him of enough food and clothes, but he had always had _some_. Now he had no shelter over his head, let alone food or clothing. He’d ripped the bottom of his trousers on a protruding iron nail from a fence, and had nothing to mend them with. He’d cut his leg on it, for that matter, though it was only a shallow cut. He washed the wound out with water, and tried not to think about the possibility of infection.

 

That night was not so pleasant as the last; he walked up to the valley again but it drizzled all night, and the trees gave only sparse shelter. The impulse which had led him to leave Thornfield with as little as possible – both to travel light and to take nothing which might be considered to belong to Thursday – was now roundly condemned as a foolish one. During his stay at Thornfield he’d always used one of the greatcoats kept for visitors on his excursions to the village or when walking, not having one of his own. It hadn’t even occurred to him to take one when he’d left Thornfield two mornings ago, it would have been theft, but oh, how wonderful the warmth and protection of a coat would have been now. How necessary. Even though the night was not much cooler than the one before, he spent almost all of it wet and as such it was impossible to be comfortable. He barely slept at all, sickness of the spirit joining with his body’s hunger, dampness and tiredness to make him truly miserable.

 

 _What was the point anymore_ , he wondered. What was he to do now?

 

The following day someone in the village sharply told him that if he was looking for charity he should try up at the great house.

 

Desperate, weary, and mortally afraid of what was to become of him, Morse walked up the indicated road until a small estate house came into view amidst the copses of trees. It was modern, compared to the craggy, ancient feel of Thornfield. Less sprawling, more stately. Surrounded by leafy green woods to either side, and with what Morse could now see was a lake bordering the back of the house.

 

It was lovely.

 

He didn’t even try the front of the house; his clothes had dried to soddenly damp rather than soaked through, but even so he couldn’t imagine he looked particularly respectable.

 

His knock at the door to the kitchens was answered by a stout, ruddy faced woman. Her apron was streaked with a wide variety of things, and her face closed off as soon as she saw him. The door started to close not a moment after.

 

“Please,” he said desperately, wedging his foot in the door. She made a loud noise of complaint, and slammed the door against it, making him wince. “Please, I’m looking for work. Have you any need for-“

 

“There’s no work here.” She tried to bang the door shut again, growing more irritable. “Now get out before I throw you out!”

 

“Is there anyone else here I could ask?”

 

Her face darkened at the intimation that her word wasn’t good enough.

 

“The butler won’t be back ‘til later,” she said shortly. “But there’s no point in you asking. There’s nothing for you here!”

 

Further pressure, and his foot slipped out a bit, his chances narrowing.

 

“Please,” he begged. “Just a crust of bread – anything!”

 

Her face contorted in disgust, and she reached to shove him backwards with a large, meaty hand. “Go on with you, beggar!” she said, and slammed the door in his face.

 

\-------------------------

 

 

Broken, defeated, Morse started back down the drive, limping a little. He made it perhaps thirty yards and then sat down next to a tree just off the path, resting his back against it. He had no idea what to do next. Find another town, he supposed, but he didn’t know if he had the strength for it.

 

Hunger hollowed out his belly, until he wasn’t sure if he couldn’t feel it anymore or it was so prevalent that he could feel nothing but. He shifted position a little as if to ease the ravenous ache in his stomach, but it made no difference.

 

He should go back and try and steal some more food from the pigs, he knew. He should do something.

 

It started to rain.

 

Trickles of water gradually made it through the leafy canopy and plastered curling stands of his hair to his head. He couldn’t even bring himself to reach up and move his fringe out of his eyes, and it caught at his eyelashes every time he blinked.

 

His collar got wet, his jacket, his shirt. Water seeped up from the ground he was sitting on to meet the cold rain from above and soon his trousers were soaked too. The fabric of them pulled unpleasantly taut and sopping against his skin when he shifted, so he stayed still.

 

The rain grew heavier.

 

Perhaps, he thought sometime later, there was no point in going on. Perhaps this was where he was supposed to end. This was all life had in store for him. What could he do now, anyway? What was the point of him?

 

His breath hitched as a rivulet of cold water streamed off a leaf somewhere above him and managed to land with unerring accuracy inside his collar. He turned his face away and was ashamed to realise suddenly that he was crying, that tears were streaming down his face and that the hitching of his breath was a sob. His next breath was even more ragged, and the one after that.

 

He had no energy to get up, no energy to go on. He’d spent every last scrap of it getting here, only to be turned away again. Let me die here, then, he thought listlessly, and they’ll be sorry when they find me in the morning that they couldn’t even spare a scrap of bread.

 

His thoughts grew somewhat hazier after that, and all of them centred on Thursday.

 

Time passed, marked only by the pattering of the rain.

 

The next thing he was aware of was a burning heat against his cheek, almost painful in its intensity.

 

“God, he’s like ice,” he heard dimly. “Help me get him inside, and then we’ll send for the doctor.”

 

Morse’s lips parted, to say what he didn’t know, and he felt another face come close to his own.

 

“Can you hear me?” the voice said. It was smooth, kind. A nice voice, Morse thought. He managed to crack his eyes open a fraction. “There you are,” and now the voice was warm. The man Morse saw was young, probably not much older than himself, with dark hair dripping over his forehead and eyes full of concern. “I’m Joss Bixby. Can you understand me? Can you tell me your name?”

 

Morse’s eyes slid closed again, and he fell away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've actually managed to sketch out most of the rest of the fic in a hazy series of nights writing until 4 in the morning - at which point I could neither spell words nor see the screen anymore. So, yes, it's happening. It will be finished! Thanks to everyone for their encouragement!


	16. Bixby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morse, having fled Thornfield, finds himself relying on the kindness of a stranger as he considers how to make his way in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains characters from episode 3.1, Ride, but no spoilers as such.

 

Wakefulness came slowly, and with it the feeling that he’d woken several times before. His forehead was furrowed in a frown before he ever opened his eyes, and he heard the quiet murmurings of a woman’s voice.

 

His lethargic gaze settled on the person sitting at his bedside. Her plain, simple attire marked her to be a maid, as did the petticoat she was mending. Morse opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a dry croak.

 

Her gaze snapped up at the noise, her hand flying to her chest.

 

“Oh! Frightened the life out of me, you did.” She waited a moment, seeming to assess him, then said, “Mr Peters said you came around before, but just for a moment. But you’re awake now, aren’t you? I’ll fetch the master.”

 

She set her work aside and was out the door before Morse could make any further effort to speak. He cleared his throat hoarsely, cleared it again, and that prompted a coughing fit which precluded any attempt to rise. Lying back on the pillows, he took in his surroundings.

 

The room he was in was simply furnished, but it was not a servant’s room – it had the look of a guest chamber furnished in some elegant, modern style. Used as he was to the rich, historic drapings and fabrics of Thornfield – some accumulated over centuries – this design was intriguing and new to him. After a moment he saw his suit, clearly recently laundered and mended, hanging on the back of the door which had fallen half shut in the wake of the maid’s departure.

 

He contemplated getting dressed, looking down to find himself in unfamiliar nightclothes. He plucked at the neckline, finding the fabric fine, then looked around again.

 

Where was he?

 

Finding himself distressingly weak, he managed to twist in the bed and start to push himself up, aiming to sit on the edge before standing. He hadn’t made even half of the motion before there was a flurry at the entrance to the room, and his head rose sluggishly as hands gently pressed him to recline again.

 

“Don’t get up just yet, old chap.” Clear, light brown eyes regarded Morse intently, and the stubborn urge to push himself up subsided. He lay back with a sigh and eyed this stranger warily. The man seemed to take this in his stride, the corner of his mouth twitching in an amused smile. “How are you feeling?”

 

Morse took a moment to assess himself. His muscles felt weak and he ached almost all over. He was flooded with a pervasive weariness, and at any other time in his life might have thought he felt dreadful. His scale of comparison, however, had sunk to new depths the day before; on first waking he’d assumed that he’d died and this must be some form of afterlife.

 

 “Better, thank you.”

 

The man’s face creased further in a smile. He had a kind face, Morse thought, though his eyes seemed sad. He seemed familiar for some reason, and Morse stared at him, puzzled.

 

“Have we met, sir?”

 

The man laughed. “In a matter of speaking. I rescued you from my lawn yesterday, but I doubt you remember the introduction. The name’s Bixby, Joss Bixby,” and he held out his hand for Morse to shake as he sat down on a stool beside the bed.

 

Morse took it. “Endeavour Mo-“ Too later it occurred to him that he should not give his name. That Thursday would undoubtedly be seeking news of him, and that it would be better for both of their peace of mind were he not found. “Matthews,” he finished awkwardly. The look which Bixby exchanged with the man standing to the other side of him, his valet, Morse guessed, was telling.

 

“Well,” Bixby said, turning back to him, “it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Matthews.”

 

Morse couldn’t help a slight grimace at the name, but it was too late to retract it now. Bixby gave him a glass of water and then reached over to retrieve the maid’s abandoned plate, which held a small buttered roll.

 

“Here,” Bixby said, as pleased as though he’d provided some great delicacy. “The doctor said you must eat.”

 

Only consciousness of being in front of strangers kept Morse from devouring the bread like an animal. Even so, he tore into it with speed and relish, but after only a few bites his stomach felt heavy and almost sick. Bixby retrieved the plate, which was listing on the bed, and handed it off to his valet.  

 

Leaning forward as though to import some confidential information, Bixby said quietly, “I couldn’t help but notice that your clothing is quite fine, sir. Clearly you have suffered some accident – would you allow me to contact your friends or family for you?”

 

Looking up into that cool, clear gaze, Morse suddenly wished he’d pretended to have no memory. What could he say now; that he had no friends? No family?

 

“Thank you,” he said awkwardly. “There is no one you can contact for me.”

 

Bixby sat back on his stool, looking puzzled. “No one?” he said. “Are you sure – you ought not to travel alone in your current state. I can get my driver to take you anywhere you wish to go of course; where are you from?”

 

Again, Morse was rendered mute by the simplest of questions. “I can’t-“ he started, and then fell silent. “If you could possibly direct me to the nearest town, sir, I’d be much obliged.”

 

“Nearest town?” Bixby sounded incredulous. His dark hair almost flopped into his eyes when he gestured, Morse noticed. “I doubt you can walk unaided, man! If you have no one that can come for you then you must stay here a few days at least to recover.”

 

Morse was feeling more than a little taxed by the conversation and didn’t know what else to say, so he gave a weary nod and turned his face away a little. Taking that as his cue, Bixby rose to his feet.

 

“Don’t worry, Mr Matthews,” he said. “We’ll have you right as rain in a few days. You rest now; the doctor will come to see you again later today.”

 

The two of them left, but paused just outside in the hall. Morse struggled to make out fragments of their conversation.

 

“Inquired around the village…” The unknown voice faded too much for Morse to hear, then Bixby started, “Well, perhaps he was…” before his voice quietened too. Frustrated, Morse lay his head back and gave up, but once again the valet’s voice came, “Was asking after work…”

 

There was a sigh, and then Bixby, “Let him sleep for the moment.”

 

And despite the unhappiness of his thoughts Morse was tired, and so he did.

 

\----------------------------

 

The next time he awoke he was given broth and a little bread, and told that he had missed the doctor’s visit earlier.

 

“He says you’re doing better though,” the valet, John, added. “Got colour back in your cheeks.”

 

Morse gave an awkward smile. “I, uh, I don’t even know where I am,” he admitted after a moment, and John looked at him as though he was mad.

 

“Why, at Briarwood House. You obviously aren’t from these parts.” There was some injury in the valet’s voice at Morse not having known of his master’s residence, and Morse chose to ignore the valet to eat his food.

 

“Where are you from, then?” John asked when he had finished. “Why so secretive about it? The master’d help you get back, no problem.”

 

There was no easy answer to give, and so Morse gave none. The valet’s face darkened.

 

“If you’re up to some villainy, I’ll find you out. And if you mean any harm to Mr Bixby, I’ll have you in front of the magistrate before you can blink!”

 

\-----------------------

 

The next day dawned bright and sunny, and Morse could see the slow sway of golden, leafy branches through his windows. This seemed like a restful place, he thought to himself. He wondered at the rest of its occupants, for he’d seen no one but the master, valet and maid.

 

With John’s help he made it to the chair to sit for a bit, but the valet pursed his lips and looked dubious when he asked for his clothes. “You’ll just be asleep again in half an hour,” came the matter of fact reply. “And we’ll have to get them off again.”

 

When inquired if there was anything he needed, Morse asked if he might have a book.

 

“A book?” The valet asked, sounding even more dubious than before. “Well, I suppose. I’ll ask the master. He’s busy with his guests though, so he might not have time for you.”

 

Guests. Ridiculously, Morse’s first thought was whether one might be Thursday, or someone who knew Thursday. Someone who could give news of him. Morse closed his eyes and sternly told himself that he had no right to that information; that he had given Thursday up. It was pointless to dwell upon it.

 

Still his mind wondered.

 

Perhaps an hour later – an hour of staring out of the window and lazily daydreaming - there came a light step on the stair, almost a run. Tousled dark locks topped a face bearing a mischievous smile as Bixby entered the room, and he held proffered before him a small pile of volumes.

 

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like,” he explained, and set the books down on the table beside Morse. “Good to see you up and about!”

 

He took a seat on the stool again after dragging it nearer and smiled cheerfully at Morse. Morse’s mouth twitched in return, as though the smile was pulled out of him despite his reluctance. There was a strange charisma to Bixby; Morse wasn’t sure he’d liked anyone so instinctively since his friendship with John Burns at Highwood.

 

“So?” Bixby asked, and Morse turned to the volumes. “I’m afraid I don’t have much of a library – I’ve only just started, really.”

 

There were four volumes. Burns. Scott. A history of the noble pursuit of hunting in England. And a small volume titled ‘The Virtuous Guide,’ which Morse raised his eyebrows at. He looked up to see Bixby grinning.

 

“I find it’s always best to provide at least one unpalatable alternative,” Bixby said. “In order to render the others more appealing.”

 

Morse stared at him for a moment, unable to make out the character of this man at all. Bixby’s look grew a little uncomfortable. “Of course, if you don’t like any of them,” he started, and reached out as if to take the books.

 

“No,” said Morse, instinctively pulling them towards himself. “I mean,” he looked down at the books, “these are perfect.”

 

This time it was Bixby’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Even the last?” he joked. “Gosh, I’m worried about you reading it now; you seem like an impressionable fellow.” He paused and considered Morse for a moment, the smile fading from his face. Again, as soon as the smile was gone, he somehow seemed very sad. “You aren’t though, are you?” he asked.

 

Morse tried another smile, but though Bixby’s eyes strayed to it he didn’t seem fooled.

 

“Your valet mentioned you have guests?” Morse said in an attempt to divert attention. “I’m sorry to keep you from them.”

 

“Oh.” Bixby looked back at the doorway for a moment, to the top of the stairway just visible down the hall. “Not at all. It’s nice to get away sometimes, you know.” And now it was his smile that was strained; Morse glanced away as if to give some illusion of privacy. “Well,” Bixby said after a moment. “I should let you rest. Or read,” he added, rising from the stool. “As the case may be.”

 

\------------------------

 

Two days later, Morse made it downstairs, followed by John’s ferocious scowl. Morse couldn’t work out if the valet was worried for him or wished he’d dash his brains out on the stairs.

 

The house was bright and airy, and Morse would have appreciated it more were he not exhausted by the time he reached the ground floor.

 

“You look done in, old chap,” Bixby murmured as he met him at the bottom, and offered subtle support in the form of an arm slung around his shoulders as though they were great friends. Morse was guided into the parlour, where two young ladies sat. Morse had made out their gay laughter before even entering the room; their faces matched the sound, young and pretty and careless.

 

Bixby casually released him a couple of feet from the nearest chair, and gestured towards the two ladies. “Matthews,” he said, and it took a moment for Morse to realise the name referred to him. “These lovely young things are Mrs Belborough and Miss Piper.” Mrs Belbourough was apparently the one on the left, a beautiful blonde girl in a pale pink gown who eyed Morse thoughtfully, and Miss Piper had darker hair, a yellow dress and a slightly wicked smile. Morse smiled back uncomfortably. He was just wondering at the apparent impropriety of the master of the house having two young women there alone, when Bixby pointed deeper into the room. “And that’s Mrs Wilson, of course.”

 

She must have been the chaperone, but she seemed completely uninterested in what was going on; indeed, Morse didn’t think she’d even noticed his entrance. After a moment she finally seemed to notice the interest in her direction and looked up, squinting wizened eyes at them momentarily before going back to whatever she had in her lap.

 

Morse blinked, taken aback, but then his attention was distracted by the two ladies begging Bixby for some entertainment.

 

“I’m so bored,” the dark haired one pleaded.

 

Morse usually took his time in sketching someone’s character, in understanding the intricacies of it, but in this case he found himself making the snap judgement that she was rather silly and vain.

 

“Well,” Bixby said, spreading his hands wide. “I am at your command. How may I please you?”

 

It seemed that what pleased them was to go outside and stroll around the grounds, and Bixby was all too happy to oblige. He clapped Morse on the shoulder and gave him a wink as they passed, and then they left the room in a rustle of dresses and a chatter of tongues. Morse could hear the tinkle of their laughter all the way down the hall and sat stock still for a moment, feeling oddly like he was coming up for air. After a moment he stood and looked about the room, examining the paintings on the walls and the volume of Bryon abandoned on a side table. At least one of them was a reader then; he wondered if it was Bixby himself or one of his guests.

 

The chaperone sat alone and unconcerned in the corner. Morse wondered if she’d even noticed her charges had left. Moving to the window, he saw Bixby striding out along the drive, a lady on each arm. They started weaving from side to side of the path into the small copses of trees and Morse lost interest in them, instead focusing his attention on the play of the sunlight through the turning leaves, the way it glinted on the grass and dappled the ground with intermittent shadows.

 

His mind wandered away; far away, back south again. To the dancing of light on more familiar groves and his favourite spot by the stream, to Thornfield’s grey battlements and it’s master’s-

 

His thoughts were interrupted as he saw the party walking back towards the house. Just two of them though, Bixby and the fair haired girl; no sign of Miss Piper. Something about the way that they walked drew Morse’s gaze away from the abstract; it sharpened at the careful bracket of space maintained between them as though it were a living thing. He felt suddenly guilty, as if he were spying. He didn’t know these people at all, he thought; knew nothing of their lives or friendships. A moment later the second girl emerged out of a cluster of trees higher up the drive; looking around she saw her two friends and hurried to catch up with an irritated expression.

 

Morse turned away.

 

\---------------

 

At supper he learned that Miss Piper had been to school in Paris, and listened to a long list of her accomplishments. Somewhat belatedly, he realised at Bixby’s amused smile that she was attempting to advertise her talents to Morse, obviously believing him to be a person of some importance. Morse opened his mouth to disabuse her of the notion, then shut it again. He winced as the litany continued, but it was the lesser evil, and at least she spoke well and was not overly obvious in what she was about. At some point, Bixby gave him a consolatory grin across the table. Morse wondered if this was what rich people had to put up with all the time; if Thursday had been pursued like this? Undoubtedly so, and Morse had only seen an echo of it with Jakes.

 

His attention was suddenly caught by Mrs Belborough as she said, “Why, Bruce was saying only two weeks ago that we should get our drawing room done up like yours; he’s a terrible bore about it though. And why do we always have to do things like other people – why can we not have them the way that _we_ like them?”

 

Bixby was nodding along, but Morse’s mind had seized upon the possibility of a terrible coincidence. _Bruce_ Belborough. Morse had known a Belborough at university – they’d not been friends but it was enough of an acquaintance that the man would recognise him. His fear at being discovered flared again, try though he might to convince himself that there must be more than one Bruce Belborough in the country, and he was not fit for much conversation for the remainder of the meal. As they finished, gripped by a dreadful apprehension that Bruce might be coming to collect his wife at the end of the evening, Morse moved close to Bixby and confessed he was feeling tired and might go upstairs.

 

Bixby eyed him keenly, then nodded. “Of course, old chap, of course. It’s been a pleasure having you down with us, and we’ll all still be here tomorrow!”

 

Somewhat relieved at this indication that her husband _wouldn’t_ be coming that night, and simultaneously more anxious at the thought of her staying on so that he could run into him at some later date, Morse withdrew.

 

His bedroom seemed cold and empty compared to the rest of the house; he could still hear distant laughter from downstairs. They must have moved to the drawing room, he thought, and could not regret leaving them. Bixby aside, their conversation had been vapid and uninspired. His first impression of Miss Piper seemed to be confirmed, and Mrs Belborough… Actually, he wasn’t sure what to make of her. She had a faraway look to her at times which made him think her deeper than she appeared, that the ready laugh was just a cover for some feeling too great to give voice to.

 

His own feelings, now that he was alone, piled high upon his chest until he felt they might choke him. He removed his jacket and cravat – both borrowed from Bixby at the man’s insistence – and sat on the edge of his bed, slowly unbuttoning his shirt.

 

As happened every time he gave himself leave to think now, his mind swam with questions over his future and dwelt endlessly on what he had lost.

 

\--------------------------

 

In the following few days he managed to discover a few more things about the occupants of the house. Mrs Belborough’s husband had indeed been to Oxford, and thus seemed ever more likely to be the man Morse had known. Both of the girls were due to stay with Bixby for another week or two – no specific time was set. The situation reminded Morse of Thursday’s friends coming to stay, or of when Thursday himself went away. Everything spontaneous, nothing carefully planned. How did people _live_ like that? The irony of the thought, given his current situation, was not lost on him.

 

It also became clear that Bixby was hopelessly in love with Mrs Belborough – Kay, Morse had heard him call her once – despite purportedly being a great friend of her husband. At first Morse found Mrs Belborough’s feelings harder to determine, but he saw at times a pained  and longing look in her eyes after Bixby had left the room that spoke of great intimacy. It saddened him to see two lovers in such an impossible situation; he did not think that they were having an affair, just that they pined for each other.

 

He was sad on Bixby’s behalf especially, because somehow in the course of the week the man had become a friend.

 

“You’re welcome to stay here, Matthews, you know that,” Bixby said to him earnestly one night as they retired to his study for a drink.

 

“Call me Endeavour,” said Morse, a request he hadn’t made of anyone in years.  Bixby’s eyes caught his, gaze sharp as tacks, and Morse gave a slight shrug.

 

“Yes,” Bixby said slowly. “I had wondered. Endeavour it is, then.” He came to sit next to Morse on the sofa. “Some kind of trouble you’re in, is it?” His voice carried no judgement.

 

Morse shook his head. “Not like that. I just can’t-“ He hesitated. “I just can’t.”

 

Bixby watched him for a moment, then reached out a hand and cuffed him on the arm. “Nowhere to go then, eh? Well, stay here. I could use the company. And you could advise me on my library.”

 

Morse gave a slight smile. The library at the moment was a single mostly empty bookcase in that very study; Bixby had always subscribed to the circulating library before, he’d said, but now that he’d settled down and had the money for it…

 

“I’m not sure how good my advice would be,” Morse said. Bixby snorted.

 

“A damn sight better than most, I’d think. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’re the most highly educated of all of us. Cambridge man?”

 

And Morse’s traitorous mouth opened and said, “No, Ox-“ He cut himself off, but it was too late.

 

Bixby’s smile was secretive and pleased. Morse scowled at him.

 

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m not going to tell anyone, and I wasn't trying to trick it out of you. A man can ask, can’t he?”

 

Morse smiled tightly and looked aside. Bixby sighed.

 

“And now I’ve upset you. Come on, Endeavour, cheer up. It might be autumn but the world hasn’t noticed yet, so let’s enjoy the warm weather while we can.”

 

\----------------------

 

True to his word, the next day Bixby insisted they go swimming in the lake. “You’re well enough, aren’t you?”

 

“I-“ Morse looked out over the water, softly glimmering in the warmth of twilight. It looked lovely, to be sure, but Morse was certain it would be far colder than it appeared. “I don’t know,” he said, frowning. “I don’t think it’s such a good idea.”

 

“Don’t be such a worry-wart,” Bixby laughed at him, and was already stripping off his shirt.

 

Morse looked around, unable to shake the feeling of alarm. His mouth stretched taut in an awkward grimace and he shook his head slightly.

 

“There’s no one here, Endeavour,” Bixby called, and he was down to his breeches now, waving his shirt in Morse’s direction like it was a flag to a bull. “Come on!”

 

Uncertainly, Morse’s fingers moved to undo his collar. He took a step towards the lake, another.

 

It was completely improper, of course. The ladies had retired to their rooms to rest before dinner; it was just the two of them. Even so, anyone could come round the corner – for a servant to find them like this would be incredibly embarrassing. And, for all Bixby’s lax attitude on the subject, it was really no less untoward for _Morse_ to be alone with him. To be alone with him half naked in a lake… well.

 

On the other hand, Morse knew that Bixby had no interest in him, in love with Mrs Belborough as he was, and the idea of doing something so daring had a sudden, unlikely appeal. When in his life would Morse ever do such a thing again?

 

He carefully checked that they were out of sight of the house, then started to undo his own shirt. Their cravats had already been discarded in the afternoon sun; Morse found Bixby’s views on such matters strange and oddly liberating. If no one else was around, why shouldn’t they take them off? They could put them back on again before going back inside, or if company approached. It all made a twisted sort of logical sense, and this lake escapade slotted neatly into the same category.

 

Morse was shaking his head ruefully as he shrugged out of his own shirt, leaving his undershirt and trousers on. “Come on in,” Bixby yelled happily, “the water’s-“ And then, actually jumping in, he came up spluttering and swearing. “Christ, it’s bloody cold.”

 

Morse laughed, and once it was out the sound surprised him with how carefree it had sounded. He went down to the water’s edge, and might have sensibly stayed dry had Bixby not swum up to him and grabbed his legs, pulling him in.

 

\----------------------

 

They escaped none the worse for their excursion, sneaking back into the house to Bixby’s exaggerated ‘shh’ing gestures. Morse couldn’t be sure they hadn’t been seen by a discreet servant or two, but since no one made mention of it he gradually allowed his apprehension over the matter to ease.

 

It had been fun. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected, with the ghosts of Thursday’s soft murmurings and anguished cries, to find any shred of peace again. He was quiet that night, pouring over it internally, and Bixby let him be.

 

The next day, the girls went on an excursion somewhere in the carriage and Bixby pulled Morse into his study once he’d finished his business with his steward.

 

“Stay here,” he said. Morse looked at him in surprise. “Last night – I could tell you were thinking about leaving again.”

 

Morse hadn’t been, particularly, except as a natural extension of his thoughts about Thursday and the need to find something to do with his future.

 

Now he ran his fingers over the seam of the armchair fabric and tilted his head. “I have to find some occupation,” he said. “I have to leave.”

 

“What occupation?” Bixby asked. “What will you do? Who will recommend you?” And Morse’s face took on a downcast turn, as this was a hurdle he had not yet worked out how to overcome. He could not get employment as any kind of teacher or private tutor without some kind of reference, and he dared not contact Lorimer at Oxford - since Thursday undoubtedly would have already done so. His heart tripped at the thought. Would it be so bad, if Thursday were to find him? Maybe it would be-

 

“Endeavour?” Bixby said, and Morse realised it wasn’t the first time his name had been called. He gave an apologetic half-smile. Bixby considered him. “You do get lost in your thoughts, don’t you? Here, you’ve not left a girl in a bad way, have you?”

 

“No,” Morse said numbly. “Nothing like that.”

 

“Ah.” Bixby leaned back in his seat. “Love, then.”

 

They sat in silence, sipping their drinks for a while. Morse had come to a new appreciation of port and brandy in the past week, and savoured the flavours on his tongue. Of course, he didn’t doubt that Bixby had the very finest. He’d never asked why Bixby seemed to have substantial wealth but no history of it, because Bixby seemed to have no inclination to discuss it.

 

“What if I could give you an occupation?” Bixby mused, and Morse glanced up.

 

“Like what?” he asked, bemused.

 

“Oh, I don’t know. Groundskeeper or the like.”

 

“You already have one of those,” Morse pointed out. “Far better at the job than I would be.”

 

Bixby sighed. “I know.”

 

Now that the subject had been raised again, the need to make a decision seemed more urgent. “I should go,” Morse said quietly to himself, staring into the fire. Where yesterday had been warm and balmy, today it was cold enough that not even Bixby would have considered jumping into the lake. The staff had all been well prepared for the weather to turn, split logs split stacked by the fireplace, and now flames licked gleefully up the side of the wood as it burned.

 

“No you shouldn’t,” Bixby replied immediately, startling him from his thoughts. “What will you do, live like a hermit? I’ve got a cabin in the woods if you want to do that!”

 

Morse stared at him. “What did you say?”

 

Bixby huffed. “I said I’ve got a – no, Endeavour, no.”

 

But the idea had taken root in Morse’s brain. “Yes,” he said honestly. “That would do nicely.”

 

“I spoke in jest, man – you couldn’t possible stay there.”

 

“Why not?” Morse asked.

 

“Well…” Bixby floundered. “You’ll get cold. It’s not designed for the winter months. And it’s savage, Endeavour, truly. Besides, there’s no need – you’re more than welcome here.”

 

Morse frowned. If his reasoning for being out there was to be of less burden to the household, then it was true it would have little impact unless he could somehow feed and clothe himself. Almost everything he had been wearing for the last week belonged to Bixby, and aside from a few token protests Morse had gone along with it. It had been easier.

 

He needed to stop doing what was easier.

 

“I’ll need a job,” he said, again half to himself. Then, looking up at Bixby, “To get money for food.”

 

Bixby’s expression was somewhere between exasperation and… no, actually, it was just exasperation. “You idiot,” he said, but didn’t seem inclined to follow that up with anything else.

 

“It’s not right of me,” Morse said earnestly. “Living off your charity like this.”

 

Bixby seemed set to argue again, so Morse added quietly, “And I wouldn’t mind a bit more time alone.”

 

That gave the other man pause. After a minute, Bixby tapped his finger against his lips, eyes distant, and said, “Alright, I have an offer for you.”

 

Morse laced his fingers across his lap, elbows resting wide on the arms of the chair. He tilted his head back, looking up at the ceiling, and waited.

 

Another minute passed.

 

“You could be my companion.” It was said slowly, consideringly, as though Bixby was testing the notion out. Morse snorted. “No, I mean it. Not all the time – you’d have your solitude. But I could use someone. It gets lonely here.”

 

“You don’t seem lonely,” Morse said, slanting his eyes down to observe Bixby’s face. It was pensive, and that sadness was there again.

 

Bixby huffed a laugh. “Maybe not at the moment. But I don’t usually have company, this was an exception.”

 

“Miss Piper said you used to have big parties all the time.”

 

“Hmm. I did, at first.” Bixby went quiet for a moment. “But all the people were the same, and none of them were-“ He stopped, as though he’d almost said too much.

 

“I’m not sure I’d be a particularly good companion,” was all Morse could think to say.

 

“Oh, I think we get along just fine.” Then, more quietly, “You help keep me grounded.”

 

Morse smiled a little painfully and agreed to stay.

 

\----------------------------

 

The cabin was, as Bixby had declared it, _savage_. It was perhaps half a mile away from the main house, had no running water, and Morse’s quick eye swiftly agreed that it might be untenable when winter actually hit. Still, for the moment it was a haven. He chopped his own wood for the fire, finding that in the simple, hard work he ceased to think. Things fell into an easy rhythm of stacking and swinging the axe, and he could inhabit that small world fully without ever thinking outside it. Not so during the nights; the nights were long and agonising. They’d been like that up at the house too though, so he was glad for his solitude, glad to steal away and lick his wounds in private. He knew that he was brooding on the past, that he was making no effort to let go, but he _couldn’t_. He just couldn’t.

 

He tried to be happy in his life there, however, and Bixby was an endlessly varied companion. Bixby too had his moods, however, unfortunately leading to not-infrequent days when they were both morose. Sometimes they snapped at each other; Morse terse and defensive, Bixby gloomy and resentful. They both had their reasons. Neither ever talked about them. Most days were pleasant however; Bixby was witty and had obviously spent a lot of time in the city, and was himself quite a study of human nature.

 

Morse taught Bixby Latin, not commenting on his lack of it, and Bixby taught him to ride – a herculean undertaking which Morse sometimes thought Bixby only followed through on due to the amusement it afforded him.

 

The trees cycled through reds and yellows and browns, the colours stretching as far as the eye could see from his cabin. The leaves fell and were raked into piles in the gardens; Bixby suffered extreme disappointment on discovering the leaves were all removed every day rather than forming some giant stack he could fall into – a desire he’d confided to Morse he’d had since he was a small child.

 

“I’m sure you could order them to make a pile for you,” Morse had said.

 

“That would take all the fun out of it,” Bixby sniffed.

 

It was November when Morse was forced to admit to himself that he couldn’t stay out in the cabin any longer. He took a long look around it when he got up in the morning, resigning himself to having to ask Bixby if he could move back up to the house. He’d found some measure of peace here. His dreams had grown fonder, if no less bittersweet.

 

He turned from his contemplation of the wooden walls and found Bixby lounging in the doorway. Morse started. “How long have you been there?”

 

Bixby stayed quiet for a moment, watching him, then looked around and theatrically shivered. “Long enough to know it’s freezing,” he said. Morse saw the opening he needed, and drew breath to speak. Bixby beat him to it. “You do realise you’re costing me more in firewood than having you up at the house would?”

 

Morse let the breath out and eyed his friend ruefully. He didn’t even need to say anything further, Bixby just nodded and said, “Room’s made up for you.”

 

\-----------------------

 

Miss Piper and Mrs Belborough came to stay again in January, and Morse understood better this time that the former was only there to give an excuse and a semblance of propriety to the latter’s visit. Again, Morse watched the avoidance of each other’s eyes followed by long desperate looks when they thought themselves unobserved, the almost magnetic force which both compelled them to touch and repelled them apart. He found he couldn’t watch, much of the time, as it merely multiplied the ache in his own heart.

 

And finally his luck ran out, a fine winter’s morning three days into their stay bringing an expensive looking carriage and Bruce Belborough with it.

 

“Bruce,” cried Bixby as though he hadn’t seen him in years. Bixby still retained a somewhat active social life which Morse wasn’t a part of – travelling off to visit friends or his town house, though rarely for more than a couple of days at a time. Morse knew that he’d seen Bruce not more than a few weeks before, since that was how the ladies’ visit had been arranged.

 

Bruce, Morse was reminded within a minute of reencountering him, was abrupt, inconsiderate, and an irredeemable social climber. He didn’t seem to recognise Morse at first and Morse hastily excused himself, making for the hallway.

 

“Wait a minute,” he heard behind him. “Morse!” the voice marvelled. “Morse, is that you?”

 

Caught, Morse paused mid-step, still facing the door. He looked heavenward for a moment, wishing for strength, and turned, seeing Bruce’s smug face slightly slack with shock.

 

“God,” Bruce said, “I never thought I’d see you again.”

 

Morse smiled tightly. Bixby stepped up beside him, as though Morse hadn’t been about to leave at all, and steered them all to be seated.

 

“I see you two know each other,” he said pleasantly, and Morse shot him a dry look.

 

“Yes. Yes, we knew each other at Oxford.” Bruce turned to Morse. “I heard all about what happened there. Terrible business. We all know you were a good sort.”

 

Morse felt his expression grow more pinched. He’d not thought about Susan or his summary dismissal in nearly a year. Now here it was, cast back in his face by someone who could do him injury.

 

“Indeed,” Bixby murmured, obviously intrigued but just as obviously not wanting to discomfort Morse in company. “Indeed. Well, Bruce, did you have business you wanted to discuss? I’m sure we can leave Endeavour to entertain the ladies.”

 

Morse didn’t do a particularly good job entertaining the ladies, distracted and uneasy, but they were in no mood to be entertained anyway – at least not by him. When Bixby entered the room again he was alone, and Morse’s eyes lingered long on the doorway behind him.

 

“Bruce has headed off,” Bixby said, mainly to Morse since the others were paying them no mind.

 

“Oh,” said Morse, dry mouthed. “I’d, uh, hoped to speak with him.”

 

Bixby paused by his chair on the way past. “I asked him to be discreet,” he murmured. Morse should have been thankful but instead closed his eyes in dread; discreet to Bruce wasn’t necessarily what other people might understand by the term.

 

And indeed, three weeks later, he was proved right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m actually not a fan of the episode Ride at all, barring all the Morse angst and lovely Morse and Thursday scenes. But this was the set of people that seemed to fit best as where Morse would retreat to, so here they are.


	17. Emergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone finds out where Morse is, leading to a cascade of events which leave Morse floundering as to his future...

It wasn’t what he’d expected, Morse thought as he looked at the immaculate stationary bearing the signature of a Mr Briggs from London. The name itself had sent reverberations of anticipation and fear ringing through him, and he’d scanned the letter in an almost ecstatic state. Only to slow and start over from the beginning.

 

There was no mention of Thursday. No sign that the lawyer had been commissioned by Thursday to find Morse. No, Briggs had been engaged to deal with the Morse family’s bequests, and to re-establish the correct inheritance for the family’s estate now that Mrs Morse and young Peter Morse were dead. Morse reread that line several times. His stepmother, dead? And the half-brother he’d never known? Joyce had mentioned he was a sickly child, but…

 

The letter went on to say that his father’s will had stated that, should something happen to his heir, Endeavour was to inherit everything. Mr Briggs wanted to meet with him at his earliest convenience; they’d been seeking him for two months.

 

Morse read that again too, and then sat back, stunned. Bixby, who’d been there when the letter had come in, waited silently. Eventually Morse looked up and his friend asked, “Do you want to tell me about it?” Morse hesitated a moment, long enough for Bixby to say, “No, wait, you’re white as a sheet, let me get you a drink.”

 

Morse took the proffered drink automatically when it was offered to him, and then just as unthinkingly placed it off to the side. He looked down at the letter again.

 

“My step-mother and half-brother are dead,” he said slowly, sounding out the words. “I’m to inherit everything.”

 

Bixby clearly didn’t know whether to console him or congratulate him. “A lot, is it?” he settled on.

 

Morse laughed a little wildly and shook his head. “No, almost nothing as far as I know. God, _dead_.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be,” Morse said before he could curb himself. “That is – my brother was very young, I never knew him. I’m sorry he’s dead.”

 

Perhaps he could also be sorrowful in the abstract that his stepmother was dead; because he knew Joyce had loved her, because she’d been another human being. But some core of him still burned hot at the thought of her wrongs against him, and he could not bring himself to say so.

 

“I see. Do you need to contact anyone?”

 

“I – yes. I’ll need to write back to my lawyer. And my sister – she must be so worried.” He closed his eyes for a moment at the thought of Joyce, lost and alone and fearing for her future. He felt so selfish, suddenly.

 

“Anything you need,” Bixby said, voice sincere. Morse opened his eyes and managed a nod, then he stared down at the letter again.

 

A quiet creak accompanied Bixby leaning forward in his chair. “This was not the thing you feared,” he said contemplatively. Morse looked up again, quick to bristle, and Bixby held up a hand to forestall him. “You’ve been hiding here for several months now, Morse.”

 

It was the first time Bixby had used his real name; Morse flinched to hear it from his lips.

 

“I thought at first it was some minor misdeed on your part. Then, after I knew you, that your family were trying to force you into an unwanted marriage. Or maybe that your family _were_ all dead – you seem so used to solitude.” He considered Morse a moment. “But now I think it isn’t any of those.”

 

“Bixby-“

 

“If it had been your family there would be some measure of relief in your expression, but there is none. Whatever was weighing upon you still does so – I see it in your eyes, now.”

 

Morse folded the letter. His lack of reply seemed to be expected, although he nonetheless felt that Bixby was disappointed. A moment of silence passed, and then Bixby caught his eye.

 

“Someone was… cruel to you, weren’t they, Endeavour?”

 

Morse flinched, at the sting of the words rather than any truth to them. Bixby nodded slowly though, as if some theory had been confirmed.

 

“No,” Morse said hastily. “ _No_. I just, I just can’t go back to where I was before.”

 

“Because you don’t want the people you knew to find you. But they aren’t your family. Curious.”

 

Morse had stiffened in his seat; on the back of the letter about his family this was too much. “I shall take my leave of you,” he said formally, and Bixby rose to watch him exit the room.

 

\-------------------------

 

He’d been given a dire impression of the family finances, but it turned out his version of almost nothing and his step-mother’s were vastly different. There was still their family home; that could be sold. There was money which had been tied up overseas – some five thousand pounds which his step-mother had apparently never known or understood enough about to claim. His father had won it while on a last lucky streak, apparently, but fallen ill before he could claim it.

 

There was Joyce.

 

Morse was nineteen now, almost twenty, which made her sixteen. She flew into his arms when he met her again, and could not be removed for several minutes while she stifled a flood of tears against his chest. “Alright, Joyce,” he said, “it’s alright now.”

 

He was afraid as he spoke the words though, because what did he know about supporting a dependant? The other thing he’d inherited was a large pile of debts, and he had no idea how far five thousand pounds would go when he also had to provide for Joyce’s dowry. What would have seemed like a princely sum not a week before suddenly seemed barely sufficient. Still, he thought they should be able to live mostly off the interest until Joyce found someone, and then he could give her her share - the debts could be paid from his half of the inheritance. Two and a half thousand pounds seemed like a reasonable dowry, he thought, but this wasn’t the world he’d been raised in and doubts flared. Luckily Mr Briggs arranged someone to go through the accounts with him, and the man talked Morse through all of the business matters and properties.

 

“What do you want, Joyce?” Morse asked her.

 

He had no attachment to their old home, but she might. It wasn’t an estate and wouldn’t generate income of its own, but it was large and would be expensive to maintain.

 

“I don’t really mind,” she said uncertainly. Only sixteen, but he thought she looked older somehow – marked, perhaps, by the loss of most of her family.

 

On further discussion she admitted that while she didn’t want to live there now, she might like to move back in the future. He deliberated further, and in the end decided to keep it for the moment. He certainly felt that it was more hers than his – that he had merely happened back into this inheritance through an accident rather than any deliberate action on his father’s part. So they would keep the house as long as it was feasible, and perhaps rent somewhere until he had a better idea of what to do.

 

What to do? The pressure weighed on him, thick and heavy. He was responsible for someone now; it was up to him how well Joyce did in her life. She wasn’t yet out, so her acquaintances would all be guided and formed by him. And he knew nobody.

 

In terms of accomplishments she was well set at least, she’d had a thorough governess and some tutelage from masters in her painting and singing. She was very pleasant to listen to, he thought as she played the piano for him that evening; she was such a sweet girl.

 

One you almost didn’t get to know again, the thought came unbidden. If you’d died out on the moors in your burst of self-pity, what would have become of her then? Yes, she would have inherited the money, but with no guardian she would have been completely lost and likely fallen easy prey to the manipulation of others. And he would have died that day, he was sure of it, were it not for Bixby.

 

“Joyce,” he called when she was finished, and she came to sit by him. He contemplated her for a moment, uncertain of how to speak to her; child or adult, sister or stranger. “I was staying with a friend in ----shire before I came here. At Briarwood House. We would be welcome guests there-“ he hoped they would be “-while we arrange the closing up of the house and new apartments to live in.”

 

Once their debts were paid and they figured out how much they had to live on, then they could decide.

 

She looked at him trustingly. “Alright.”

 

He wrote Bixby, feeling guilty that he hadn’t done so before now, and asked if he and his sister might visit and stay for a while. A few days later he received a brief reply, stating that Morse and his sister were always welcome and should stay as long as they liked. And also that he was beating Morse at chess.

 

Being as how he wasn’t there to move the pieces on his side of the board, Morse could well imagine that to be true.

 

So he and Joyce travelled back out across the countryside in a privately hired carriage, and he saw her eyes widen with every new vista. He remembered being her age, younger even, when he’d first gone to school, and how every new sight had been of pleasure to him. It still was, of course, but she was in the position of never having seen anything outside of her home before; every new thing brilliant and fascinating.

 

The journey took two days. They stayed at an inn overnight, and when they finally arrived on the evening of the second day Bixby came out to meet them, breath blowing out in white puffs of steam in the dark and the cold.

 

“Here you are,” he cried warmly, and spread his arms open wide. “You must be tired; have you eaten?”

 

“Yes, thank you,” Morse said. “We stopped for dinner at an inn on the way. May I introduce my sister, Miss Joyce Morse? Joyce, this is Mr Bixby.”

 

Bixby turned to her and made a formal bow, and she curtsied in response. “A pleasure, Miss Morse,” he announced grandiosely, and then turned to wink at Morse when she smiled. Morse felt the faintest hint of unease at having Bixby, with all his easy charm, around his sister, but knew that the other man meant well.

 

Joyce was tired from her long day and soon went to bed, being promised a proper tour tomorrow. Bixby ushered Morse into the library, and Morse was too worn himself to protest.

 

“Right then,” Bixby said, pressing a glass of his finest into Morse’s hand. “How did it all go?”

 

It was such a relief to have someone to confide in; Morse spilled all of the events since he’d left and stiltedly explained some of his worries over supporting Joyce and managing the money.

 

“Ah yes,” Bixby said when he’d finished. “Having money is sometimes just as much of a burden as having not enough.” Morse couldn’t help but think of himself a month ago, thinking that he had nothing in the world to his name. “And of course with your sister to worry about…” Bixby considered Morse for a moment. “I could give you some advice, if you like,” he said cautiously. “I make a lot of investments, though you should be cautious with those until you feel secure of her future. But certainly we could go over budgets and – what? What have I said which amuses you?”

 

Ruefully Morse explained that the last time he had really worried about budgets was when he was a student at Oxford stretching every shilling, so any help would be appreciated. And God, what did he knew about women’s dresses and the things that they needed? Bixby’s look grew sad again at that, but he said that he could perhaps get some help from a friend.

 

\-------------------

 

They settled into life at Briarwood House rapidly, Joyce and he. Perhaps her ready affection for the place was because she saw that he was comfortable there, and her easy acceptance of Bixby because she saw the friendship between he and Morse. Bixby, much to Morse’s relief, seemed to regard Joyce in a more parental light than anything else.

 

“Perhaps an uncle,” Bixby mused. “That would be best, wouldn’t it. Able to enjoy the antics of the children and then give them back whenever chastisement is needed.”

 

Joyce was a kind and thoughtful young woman, however, and Morse rarely needed to reprimand her about anything. She’d been brought up with a very great respect for propriety, and Morse’s one or two awkward conversations about how she was growing up and should be careful of young men seemed to be largely unneeded.

 

And so the days passed, and spring truly arrived. With the new buds and shoots on the trees Joyce was able to see more of the beauty of the place and began to beg Morse to rove out of doors with her; something he did with a mixture of pleasure and wistfulness. How many times had he and Thursday gone walking together, how many times had Thursday pointed out some tree or bird that he now pointed out to Joyce in turn?

 

Bixby hadn’t invited back the young ladies in the two months that Morse and Joyce had been staying with him. He had, however, passed on the requested advice, and a list of recommendations for a ladies companion. Morse shortlisted three for interview, and went into town to meet with them. One, a Mrs Hicks, seemed the clear choice. She was a young widow with no children of her own and she seemed intelligent and kind; so calm and unflustered the Morse almost felt as though he were the one undergoing the interview. Moreover, he felt her personality would be a good match with Joyce. He hired her, effective immediately, and gave her direction to the house.

 

Joyce loved her. Bixby loved her a little less.

 

“I feel like she is always judging me and finding me wanting,” he whispered to Morse as they stood by the mantelpiece at the opposite end of the room from the ladies.

 

“Really?” said Morse, deadpan. “Would that be your guilty conscience speaking?”

 

“I haven’t done anything,” Bixby hissed. “Recently.”

 

Morse’s lips tugged into a smile, and he hid his face behind his glass. Certainly Mrs Hicks seemed to make Bixby, and to a lesser degree Morse himself, feel like a schoolboy again. Something which Morse knew Joyce secretly enjoyed, although she pretended she didn’t know about it.

 

Morse told himself that this was the purpose of his life now; taking care of Joyce. He didn’t need more. He would endeavour to forget all that had gone before, and all of the feelings which still stirred ruthlessly and rebelliously in his heart.

 

He would learn to be content.

 

\---------------------------

 

It was nearing the end of May, over a month since Mrs Hicks had come to join them, when Bixby asked Morse to accompany him on a walk. They didn’t walk out so often as they used to, when it had been just the two of them, and Morse agreed readily.

 

They strolled unhurriedly for a couple of miles, and even though Morse was enjoying the scenery he could tell that Bixby had something particular on his mind.

 

When they reached a small rise which gave a particularly fine view of this side of the lake, Morse stopped and stood gazing across the water for a moment. It was more grey than blue today, and the shifting clouds above them created patterns of murky shadow on the lake’s surface.

 

Finally he turned towards his friend. “Well?”

 

Bixby looked at him for a moment then turned to follow the previous direction of his gaze, squinting against the brightness of the clouds as he looked over the lake.

 

“I have something I want to ask you,” Bixby said after a minute. He sounded subdued.

 

Morse chose a smooth looking boulder and perched atop it, studying Bixby’s uncharacteristic mien. “Yes?”

 

Bixby ducked another quick look at him, then stooped to the ground to pick up several small stones; standing again he started to toss them one by one towards the lake. None of them came close; they were too far away.

 

“Yes.” He aimed another stone. “You and I,” he said once he’d thrown it, “we’re friends, aren’t we, Morse?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good friends.”

 

Morse shifted on his rock. “Yes.”

 

“Then can I ask your honest opinion on something?”

 

The first thing that came to mind was Bixby’s feelings for Mrs Belborough. What should Morse say, if Bixby asked his opinion on that?

 

“Yes,” Morse said. “Of course.”

 

Bixby stopped, gazing out hard as though he expected his sight to be able to pierce the clouds. He dropped the few remaining stones from his hands, wiped them briskly on his trousers, and then turned to Morse.

 

“I’m thinking of asking you to marry me,” he said, apropos of nothing, and Morse was so taken aback by the declaration that he remained totally frozen. “Would you?” Bixby added. “Marry me?”

 

When Morse made no move for a full minute, Bixby went back and gathered more stones from the ground.

 

“I’ve surprised you,” he said as he tossed the first of them; it went further than any of the ones before.

 

“Yes,” Morse said.

 

All Morse could see of Bixby’s face was the side of it from behind – not a great view to judge someone’s mind. Still, he didn’t think Bixby had been joking – Bixby had once told him that men never joked about marriage proposals.

 

“Why?” Morse asked.

 

“Why not?” Bixby retorted, and threw another stone. A moment later he sighed and repeated the process of discarding the stones and wiping off his hands. He came to stand close to Morse.

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend like you,” Bixby said, not looking directly at him. “Someone I feel I can be myself with. Not since I was a boy.”

 

Morse felt a pang of sadness. “That’s friendship, though,” he pointed out.

 

Bixby squinted off into the distance again, his face yearning for a moment. “I’ve been thinking about asking you for months – since before you went away.” He hesitated. “Is friendship such a terrible basis for a marriage?” he asked softly. “I think we might be good together, you and I.”

 

But Morse had seen that yearning, and he knew his friend. “You’re in love with Mrs Belborough,” he said, and Bixby froze.

 

His friend recovered himself after a moment. “What does that matter?” Bixby asked with an unhappy turn to his mouth. “She’s a married woman. There will never be anything between us.”

 

And oh the cruel irony of that, the warped reflection of Thursday and Morse’s relationship.

 

“No,” said Morse quietly, and he wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement.

 

Bixby gave a quick jerk of his head. Then, “You wouldn’t have to worry for money any more. We’d see Joyce done right by, make sure she’s taken care of.”

 

And that stilled Morse’s twisting heart in his breast. Because no, he wouldn’t have married Bixby, no matter how good a friend. Not without love there, when Morse had known _such_ love and knew how it should be. Not while his heart still beat for someone else, still fought every day to align itself to where Thursday might be and had to be forcibly restrained from seeking out news of him. No, he would never have agreed to marry Bixby.

 

But for Joyce…

 

“Can I think about it?” he asked, feeling as if his throat wasn’t working properly. Bixby gave him a quick nod and a searching look.

 

“I hope you don’t have to think too long.”

 

\-----------------------------------

 

The next two days passed in a period of serious reflection, interrupted only by the occasional conversation with Joyce. Bixby left Morse to his own devices, although frequently Morse felt eyes following him.

 

Thursday had said to Morse that some men would marry merely for a tolerable situation, but Morse had never given much weight to the idea. If one wasn’t to marry for love, then it seemed to Morse that men of consequence married to give themselves more so, or in order to increase their fortunes. Morse was already dreading the day of trying to weed through Joyce’s suitors for those out for merely her money. When Thursday had said that DeBryn had been thinking of proposing, Morse hadn’t taken it seriously. He did now, thinking back on their interactions, on his unwitting encouragement. Max had been a fine friend to him, and Morse had missed the man in the last several months, frequently wishing he was free to write to him. Would he had married DeBryn, if he’d never known Thursday?

 

Such a question was of course redundant, because he _had_ known Thursday, had loved the man beyond all of his previous comprehension of the word. That kind of love, he had gradually formed the impression, was not commonplace; it was to be treasured. Partially, Morse had also concluded, to love like this was his nature; though appearing reserved he had always been given to deep feeling and passions. In Thursday he had found his match, his _equal_ , and that could never be replicated or replaced.

 

But.

 

If he could never have that, forever denied of Thursday as he was, should he remain alone until he died? He might be convinced that he could never love again in such a way, but was he then to be without all companionship?

 

He had that though, as they were now. He and Bixby were already good friends, already spent their time together. He did not need for it to be a marriage, and did not feel that marriage ought to be undertaken when there were not the appropriate feelings supporting it.

 

And Bixby himself…

 

Morse forced himself to be truly blunt and honest in his appraisal of the man and their friendship. Bixby was a fine enough man, to be sure, but he was at times reckless and thoughtless. In fact, were it not for that strange, instant liking they had taken to each other and the fact that both shared a similar source of melancholy, Morse wasn’t sure that they would have had enough in common to be friends. Their conversations were easy and smooth, but required no mental effort; no challenge or true kinship of reasoning. In his time at Bixby’s house, Morse had fallen sway to his way of life - one of indolence and indulgence. That wasn’t like Morse at all; in fact the very thought of his life being like that after marrying Thursday had been a future he’d fought against, insisting on some occupation for himself. Here, consumed by grief and, he could admit, regret, he’d fallen into a lethargy which was not good for him – which was not how he wanted to live his life. Even in the sparse amount of time he’d been away sorting out his inheritance he’d had active thoughts about finding new employment of some sort, only to fall back into the same trap when he returned. It was too easy to follow along with Bixby’s way of life, the man’s charisma and opinions overcoming such minute resistance as Morse was currently able to form.

 

This wasn’t who Morse was, not really.

 

On the other hand there was Joyce. Bixby had been right when he said that their marriage would provide stability and better prospects for her; however new his money, Bixby’s name was now one to be reckoned with. It would mean not worrying about supporting the two of them until she was married, would mean an ease of introduction into a better class of society. Morse would finally be able to provide her with everything he wished to give her.

 

And she was happy here.

 

The last point gave him pause – because of course if Morse were to refuse Bixby’s proposal they could not stay here. Though he could not imagine Bixby’s feelings for him to be anything more than platonic, still there would be disappointment and awkwardness. This would ruin one of the best friendships he’d ever had.

 

Or he could marry Bixby and hope that eventually friendship would turn to love, even though it would never be the kind of love he so longed for.

 

He sat long hours by himself in the study, strode the drive in the cold wet bluster, and thought and thought and thought.

 

\--------------------

 

On the third day, Bixby invited him to the study in the afternoon. Expecting an immediate request for an answer, Morse was greatly relieved when Bixby began instead to talk of other things, of people he knew, just as though nothing had happened between them.

 

Nonetheless, Morse could feel the weight of the proposal in the air, and knew that Bixby would ask again at some point that day.

 

After perhaps an hour, Morse had begun to relax. “You made that story up,” he said accusatively after a tale of chance gone awry. “It was too fantastic.”

 

“Not at all! And I have a better one! I have a good friend who’s a surgeon, Mr Pearson, who was telling me a fascinating story.” Morse was no longer surprised at Bixby being familiar with people from all walks of life. “A friend of his had to take a bullet out of a man’s chest because his wife had shot him.” Bixby lowered his voice salaciously. “Apparently it was all a huge scandal. The wife shot him because the husband was in love with someone else.” Morse tilted his head. “Oh no, that’s not the scandalous part. The wife was mad, you see, and this man – Thursday, I think he was called, I don’t know him personally....“

 

Cold shot through Morse, and then a tingling, searing heat. Bixby’s voice faded out, then back in again as the roaring in Morse’s ears subsided.

 

“-shut her up in a dungeon for years and was trying not half a year ago to marry someone else!”

 

Bixby’s voice had been near gleeful as he imparted this society gossip. Morse suddenly – and in hindsight unfairly – saw him as a malicious, shallow minded man who took pleasure in other people’s pain.

 

“He was shot?” someone asked, and a moment later Morse realised that the voice had been his own.

 

“Yes, Pearson’s friend successfully removed the bullet – a nice piece of surgery, apparently.” Bixby stopped and stared at Morse. “Morse, you’ve gone quite grey! Are you alright?”

 

But Morse couldn’t speak, feeling suddenly disconnected from the world around him and with a fair chance of fainting.

 

Instead of asking further, something seemed to click in Bixby’s mind and he studied Morse intently.

 

“Oh.” And then more sadly, “ _Oh_.”

 

Morse said nothing, his inner feelings in a violent tumult which could not be quieted. They sat for several minutes in silence.

 

“I have… _embellished_ the tale,” Bixby said slowly, “though I understand all of the facts to be true. I was told… I was told that the person this Thursday had tried unlawfully to marry was a young man. A tutor in the house. And that this tutor ran away after the matter came to light.” He waited for a minute, then, “That young man was you?”

 

For a moment Morse couldn’t bring himself to respond, but disguise was futile now so he gave a jerky nod.

 

“Christ,” breathed Bixby. “I knew that you… but I didn’t-“ He broke off, and seemed uncertain of what to say next.

 

Morse finally managed to gather himself. Cleared his throat. “What happened? You said – you said that he was shot. What happened?”

 

Bixby gazed at him, his expression unreadable to Morse. “The madwoman got loose, I heard,” he said slowly, more factually. “Got hold of a pistol and shot the man. Someone else restrained her but I believe she died.”

 

“The children?” Morse asked.

 

Bixby’s eyes turned uncertain. “I don’t know anything about any children.”

 

The next question came instantly, instinctively. “And is he alright? Thursday, is he well?”

 

“I-“ Bixby drew a quick breath. “I don’t know, Morse. I know nothing else of it.”

 

_Shot_. In the chest, which was incredibly serious. Morse’s heart, which felt like it had stopped dead some minutes ago, began a slow, cautious beat.

 

“I need to find out how he is,” Morse said, standing with alacrity. “Could you give me the name of this doctor friend of yours? Or no, I will go there directly, and-“

 

“Morse,” Bixby said, rising to come and stand beside him. “Take a moment. Calm down.”

 

“Calm down!” Morse repeated with a feeling of rising hysteria. Then a cold notion swept away the heat. He swallowed. “When did you hear this? How long ago was this?”

 

Bixby eyed him with pity. “I heard it not too long ago, Morse, but I believe the incident was months ago.”

 

‘ _Months_ ,’ Morse mouthed. Months ago Thursday had been shot, and Morse had never known. Thursday might have died then – could be dead now – and Morse would never have known. His hand fisted by his side, slammed down quickly into the side of his leg.

 

“Morse.”

 

“I have to find him,” He turned toward the door, brushing hurriedly past Bixby.

 

“Morse!” said Bixby again, and this time caught at his shoulder. “Why? When this man tried to-“

 

“Don’t speak of him,” Morse said, turning fiercely. “You don’t know him.”

 

Bixby tried to read his face. “I know that he tried to entice you into a bigamous marriage,” he said quietly. “I know that you ran away; that you have been terrified to be found ever since. Now tell me why I should not be concerned for you?”

 

It was a true enough display of friendship, Morse could see that; could even see the logic in what Bixby was saying.

 

He stood stock still for a moment, trying to form the words, and when he did his voice trembled. “I love him,” he said. “Beyond bearing. I could not see him again and know that he could not – that we could not be… And he would have searched for me. I know he would have,” he added more quietly. “That’s why I had to… But I cannot know that he has been hurt, that he could be lying injured somewhere - dying or dead - and not go to him. I must. I _must_.”

 

“Write then!” Bixby’s hand squeezed his shoulder gently. “I shall do so immediately, and we’ll find out for you. You aren’t well Morse – you’ve had a shock. Sit down for a moment.”

 

“I’m fine.” Morse turned his face away, his breath catching in his throat.

 

“Stay here,” Bixby said more quietly. “And let me write.”

 

A shake of the head was not enough, Morse pulled backwards out of his hold. Bixby released his arm with a sigh and watched him for a minute.

 

“Very well then,” he said. “I may not understand, but I shall not stop you.”

 

“I’m sorry.” Morse gave a pained smile, knowing that the meaning in his words was clear.

 

The smile Bixby gave him in return was one Morse recognised well – it a familiar mask to cover his sadness. For a moment Morse saw a glint in his eye which made him almost think that Bixby considered him...

 

“I have to go,” Morse said again, and then some sense of practicality intruded. “Joyce, and Mrs Hicks – would you mind if they stayed a few days, while I-“ He hesitated.

 

Bixby’s smile was more genuine now. “Of course not,” he said. “I meant it when I said you were all welcome here as long as you like.” There was a moment’s pause. “You are to consider it a standing invitation, Morse.”

 

Morse tried to smile in return. Tried not to think of what his answer might have been to Bixby’s proposal, had the night gone differently.

 

“I’ll set out tonight,” he said. “I’ll still get a good two or three hours of travel before it gets dark.”

 

Bixby insisted that Morse take one of his horses, since Morse hadn’t one of his own. Morse could have taken the carriage, of course, but that would have taken time to ready and gone more slowly, and Morse didn’t have the patience to wait. He kissed his sister goodbye, saying only that he had to urgently visit an old friend who was very ill, and set off on the sturdy bay gelding Bixby had had saddled for him.

 

He’d never ridden as a form of travel before, though some of their treks around the estate had grown quite long on fine days over the winter. The hard gravel of the road jolted through his bones, and the horse’s hooves clopped loudly. It was a clear afternoon, and the ride might have been pleasant were his anguish and terror any less great.

 

A cacophony of thoughts raced through his head, intermingled guilt and concern and prayer.

 

Just let Thursday be well, just let him live, he thought to himself over and over, and I’ll never ask for anything again. I could be quite content, Lord. Just let Thursday be alive, and I’ll do whatever you ask of me in life.

 

Just let Thursday be alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, uh, wow, I think I accidentally ship Morse/Bixby now. Who knew?


	18. Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another, darker explanation gained a greater grip on Morse’s mind.
> 
> He was too late.

He’d never prayed quite so fervently for anything in his life as he prayed for Thursday on that journey. Stopping at an inn felt like torture, but it had grown too dark to see the road and the last thing Morse needed to do was fell Bixby’s horse. He ate a meal of stew and bread and barely tasted it, downing it hungrily for all that. He had a glass of wine, then another, but felt no discernible effect on his nerves, which were still strung tight and howling at the delay.

 

He tossed and turned and strode up and down all night, and was out at the crack of dawn to ride onwards.

 

It must have been nearing ten o’ clock in the morning when he reached Thornfield, having to stop several times to inquire after directions. Once he was on the road from Millcote he fared better, because the way to the nearest village to Thornfield was clearly posted. Once he reached that village his heart beat faster as each turn grew more familiar and echoed more and more his memories. He had walked in those woods with Thursday, and just down that lane was where he’d met Thursday for the first time and surprised his horse.

 

Morse rode across the fields as a shortcut and, rounding the corner of a group of trees, suddenly saw the shape of the battlements towering against the sky, as though they were teeth bared against the heavens.

 

_Thornfield_.

 

It felt like years since he had last been here, though in reality it wasn’t yet eight months. The grounds and stone walls looked the same and yet somehow different to his eyes; long beloved and yet seen through a screen of new experience and loss. As he drew closer his eyes strained to make out the sight of the children playing in the garden, of Strange or some of the hands going about their business, but the place was quiet.

 

There was no one to greet him as he dismounted his horse at the entrance; no one to take his horse. Certainly they might have seen who it was and chosen to ignore him, to exile him as a stranger, but another, darker explanation gained a greater grip on Morse’s mind.

 

He tied his horse to a stone post, giving it a pat for a job well done, and tried the door. It was locked. All of the doors were locked, and he tried each and every one. Each window was peered into in turn, revealing nothing but empty rooms and dust sheets cast over pieces of furniture, and despair grew and grew in his heart as he continued his search. Finally he had circumnavigated the building, and had to admit to himself that there was no one there.

 

He was too late.

 

He dropped down onto the front steps, head in his hands, and sat for he knew not how long with no company but the whuff of his horse and the stray strands of spring sunshine.

 

Eventually he said into his hands, “He is dead,” and heard the muffled words as a passing bell.

 

Still longer he sat like that, while all of the desperation and excitement and fear that had been his companions the day before settled gradually into an iron lump in his stomach and heart.

 

He was too late. Thursday was dead.

 

Presently he rose, walking mechanically back to his long suffering horse; gathering the reins and then standing there, adrift. He leant against the horse’s shoulder and felt the horse lean back, balancing him. He took strength from the contact.

 

“I should ask in the village,” he said to the horse after a moment. “Find out about Joan and Sam.” He knew Thursday must have left provision for them, but he still needed to know that they were being taken care of, that they were alright. The thought of them sent away to some cold school the likes of Highwood was unpalatable in the extreme but entirely possible; Morse didn’t think they had any other living relatives. He would have no legal claim over them, didn’t even know how he would be able to help them if he did find them in an unhappy situation, but he must be able to do _something_ if it were necessary.

 

He patted the horse’s neck again and mounted, feeling as though he had aged fifty years since his arrival. His every movement now was slow and ponderous, his body feeling as sluggish in its responses as his brain.

 

“Come on then,” he said quietly, and they headed back the way they had come.

 

\------------------------------

 

Thankfully, serendipity struck in his first encounter at the village with a young shop boy who knew of Sam and Joan.

 

“Aye,” he said cheerfully. “I make deliveries to them every fortnight at a cottage nearby. They aren’t far off – maybe ten miles.”

 

Morse’s heart eased a little at finding out that they, at least, had survived whatever tragedy had befallen the hall in his absence. Not for the first time since the day before his mind accusing reminded him that if he’d just agreed to go with Thursday, if he’d just given in, they would have all been safe and none of this would have happened.

 

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Morse asked directions from the lad and then asked who the Thursdays were staying with. The boy looked slightly confused, but said, “Mr Strange is the one who places the orders, sir. And Miss Trewlove. They used to live up at Thornfield – Shirley’s my aunt.”

 

Morse closed his eyes in quick gratitude – those two would be taking good care of the children. Still, it was unusual that servants should be allowed the keeping of them; perhaps they were merely waiting for the proper guardian to be found?

 

With this new knowledge in hand, Morse set out again. It now occurred to him to wonder whether the children would _want_ to see him again. Certainly he had been close to them once, but he knew not what explanation they had been given of the whole affair, nor if their father had raged against him to them. Indeed, perhaps his presence would remind them of their father’s death.

 

He slowed, coming to a stop on a narrow, isolated section of road where he had to keep ducking low branches from the trees.

 

Was he doing the right thing, going to this place?

 

Eventually he rode on, his own selfish curiosity the deciding factor. He needed to know what had happened. Knowledge of Thursday, and when he had... He needed to know the children were safe. Even if he didn’t see them, Strange or Trewlove should be able to assure him on all of those counts.

 

Morse reached the cottage sometime in the late afternoon and saw smoke coming from the chimney. It was small and cosy looking compared to Thornfield, and he wondered how the children found the change. He left his horse at the end of the lane, making sure that it was securely tied, and made his way up to the front door.

 

“Shirley, can you – thanks!” Morse heard through the door, and then it was opened wide revealing the face of Shirley Trewlove. She looked taken aback to see him, and glanced inside and then back at him twice over before she seemed to regain her voice.

 

“Mr Morse!” Her words were hushed and stunned.

 

He gave a rueful smile. “Hello. I’m-“ And then had to stop, for he didn’t know how to continue the sentence. “I heard, yesterday,” he said after a moment. “I, uh, don’t mean to trouble you, but I wanted to check on the children.”

 

“On the children?” she asked, still just as stunned, but after a second she opened the door wider and said, “Come in, come in.”

 

James Strange turned from his work at the table as Morse entered the main room.

 

“Jim,” said Morse, and there was the same stunned disbelief.

 

“Mr Morse?” Strange sounded as though he’d just seen a ghost. He glanced across at Trewlove, and then stared Morse down as though waiting for him to disappear. ”You’re here.”

 

“Yes,” Morse said. “I’m sorry I didn’t have time to write first; I didn’t know. I won’t – I won’t bother you long. I thought maybe-“

 

There was a clattering from the next room, and Morse glanced at the door. Now that he was here, he didn’t know how to ask for details, and though they all stood in silence for a moment neither of them offered him a cup of tea or asked him to sit down.

 

“I thought maybe I could see the children for a moment,” Morse said awkwardly, and took a step towards the other room.

 

“The children?” Strange sounded as though that was the last thing he’d expected.

 

Morse’s eyebrows tugged together in a frown. “Yes,” he said. “I won’t stay long if they don’t…” He reached the door and tugged it open, looking back at Strange and Trewlove as he went through. Both of their expressions were frozen, but he couldn’t have said he understood their looks at all. He wasn’t sure how he’d expected to be received, but so far-

 

He turned as he closed the door behind him, and the figure sitting in the chair at the other side of the room was so familiar to him, so incredible, that he thought it wasn’t real.

 

His heart almost stopped. His breath certainly did, for a moment.

 

“ _Sir_.” The word slipped from his lips before he could tell himself he was talking to a figment of his imagination.

 

For a moment there was nothing, and he began to tell himself that he was hallucinating, that his eyes deceived him. But then a rusty chuckle emerged from those lips and the sounds was so real, so unlooked for. Morse stared wildly, unable to comprehend.  

 

“You’ll think me crazy, Strange,” the voice of that figure said. “But I could have sworn I heard Morse just now.” The great shaggy head of hair didn’t turn, and Morse couldn’t have uttered a word had his life depended on it. “Then again,” Thursday sighed – and it _was_ Thursday, real and alive and _here_. “When do I not see him, hear him; as though he were right here beside me?”

 

The room fell to silence for long enough that Morse thought Thursday lost in reverie, and after a few minutes he attempted to scrape his own wits off the floor.

 

“I thought you were dead.”

 

The words came clear and loud enough that Thursday swung around in an instant, his face transforming in slow motion from fatalism to disbelief to despair.

 

“You thought _I_ was dead?” Thursday’s voice was heavy. He laughed again, but it was a heavy, dark laugh. “And here I’m looking at your ghost, so now I suppose I know what’s become of you. All this time I hoped, but…” His eyes closed in inward pain and he let out a choked breath. “Oh Morse, can you ever forgive me?”

 

Morse observed him for a moment; this dear, unexpected sight. The master of Thornfield was a good deal more unkempt than when Morse had seen him last, both his hair and attire askew. His right arm was in a sling, but he otherwise appeared intact.

 

_He was alive_.

 

“Yes, sir,” Morse said. And when Thursday opened his eyes, surprised that this apparent spirit had spoken at all, elaborated. “I do forgive you, sir. And I’m – I’m really here. I heard yesterday, about what happened, though I don’t know all of it. As soon as I knew you’d been injured I came to find you. I’m glad I did,” Morse finished quietly.

 

He’d watched Thursday following his words carefully, watched strained comprehension crack through his countenance. Several moments passed, in which the two of them merely stared at each other, and he saw Thursday gradually _believe_.

 

“Morse?” Thursday’s voice cracked on his name. Morse gave a shaky nod. The next time the word was barely breathed. “Morse.”

 

“I’m here, sir.” His own voice more than a little unsteady.

 

“You’re here.”

 

“I arrived just a few minutes ago. Strange and Trewlove let me in. I thought – well. I went to the hall, you see, but it was all shut up and I thought… I thought you must be…” Morse stopped for a moment, the agony of that feeling not having quite caught up to the fact that Thursday was here in front of him. “So I wanted to find out if the children were alright. Someone in the village directed me here. I didn’t – I didn’t even know you were here. I didn’t know,” Morse murmured, half to himself.

 

Thursday’s eyes grew distant for a moment. “You thought I was dead, that’s what you said.” Morse looked down rather than reiterate it. He heard Thursday take a breath. “You thought _I_ was dead? When I searched hill and dale for you? Imagined your body lying in some ditch, thought you taken by those that might have used you ill or that you were starving desperate in the hedgerows?”

 

Morse couldn’t help ignoring the majority of the speech to admire the spark that had entered Thursday’s eye as he remonstrated, even though he felt a pang of sympathy at the obvious anguish in Thursday’s voice. “I’m sorry, sir.”

 

“ _Sorry_ , he says! Sorry for running like a thief in the night, sorry for-“ Thursday’s voice broke again, and he reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Gods, I’m so sorry, Morse. For what I did to you. For driving you away.”

 

The apology was unnecessary, and yet it was a balm to Morse to hear it. The last time they had spoken, Thursday hadn’t been reasonable; lost in the crush of emotions and events. Morse had been scarcely been better off, trying to slam a door shut across his feelings just to get through the confrontation.

 

“It’s over now,” Morse said, and moved slowly across the room. With each pace nearer to Thursday he could make out more details in the light from the window, feeling his heart constrict more and more with each remembered feature now real and whole again in front of his eyes. “You don’t need to think on it anymore.”

 

Thursday sighed, and at the end of the sigh his breath caught and he gave a rough, wet sounding cough. The cough turned into another, became a long chain of them which wracked his body and turned his face red.

 

Morse stood frozen, wanting to go to him, to help, but not knowing how. Or, for that matter, if his aid would be welcome. It seemed to last an age, but eventually Thursday drew his handkerchief away from his mouth and glanced away, shame clearly visible on his features. “Sorry,” he said.

 

“There is nothing to apologise for.”

 

After a moment Thursday’s eyes found him again, and examined his face carefully. “How can I not think of it?” the master said after a moment. “When I hurt you like that?”

 

The pain in Morse’s chest came again, emotions twisting acutely in a way that they hadn’t in months. He hadn’t realised how much of himself had gone to sleep, living in Bixby’s house, until he had yesterday once again been awakened to the full range of feeling. He raised a hand and rubbed it across his breastbone, even though he knew it would do nothing to ease the ache.

 

“Please, sir, don’t think on it any longer.” But Thursday just shook his head, the despair still gripping him. “I’m so glad to see you,” Morse said, and almost blushed at the earnestness of his tone.

 

It seemed to bring another spark of life to Thursday for a moment, but then his head fell back wearily into his hand. “You didn’t come to see me, though. You came to see the children. They went for a walk, I think – I daresay you’ll find them if you go out the back. I appreciate you letting me know you’re well.” And Thursday turned away in clear dismissal, as though Morse were just a stranger coming in for tea.

 

Briefly stymied, Morse hovered uncomfortably a few feet away before taking two quick steps closer.

 

“I did come to see you,” he said. “Yesterday – yesterday when I heard that you’d been injured I rode out to find you. I – I couldn’t wait. I couldn’t stay another moment not knowing…“ His voice trailed off, and he looked up to find Thursday watching him intently. “I had to find you,” Morse said again. “I had to see you. Are you – what happened? Are you alright?”

 

“Oh, I see. Come to learn whether or not I’ll live and then you’ll be out the door again, eh?” Thursday’s grumbling tone had little weight to it. He sighed. “The shot lodged in my chest, but they got the bullet out. More shoulder than chest, really.” His hand came up to rub at the spot. “There’s… There might be some trouble with my lungs; the doctor says it’s still early days after the surgery yet.”

 

“How – how long ago…?”

 

Thursday shrugged, and then grimaced at the motion. “Two months or so, now.”

 

February, then. February, when Morse had been dealing with lawyers and trying to care for his sister and terrified all the time that the new sphere of contacts would lead his name back to Thursday. Thursday, who’d been shot. Thursday, whom Morse should have been with.

 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” said Morse, unthinking, and Thursday scowled.

 

“What could you have done?” he asked sharply, and then his face was overcome with a look of remorse. “No, no, I’m thankful you weren’t here. God, if you’d been here I think she would have…” Though his words trailed off, Morse understood immediately that Thursday thought Luisa would have tried to kill Morse as well. Or perhaps instead of.

 

Emboldened, Morse moved to sit in the chair next to Thursday. Thursday shifted, unconsciously leaning in closer, and Morse felt warmth stir in his heart. A rekindling of something which had never been sucessfully tamped down.

 

“Tell me what happened,” Morse said. “Please.”

 

It took a few minutes, but finally Thursday was persuaded. Leaning back in his chair, he let his eyes drift to the view outside the window; he seemed to Morse to go somewhere far away.

 

“I won’t tell you what things were like after you left. I was…” He gave a sad sigh. “Things weren’t right. Even the children knew it – they missed you terribly. And I was a poor father.”

 

“I’m sure you weren’t,” Morse felt moved to interject, but Thursday grimaced and shook his head.

 

“I planned a trip abroad for us. I thought – get away. That it might help. That I might – that I might try to forget you.” His voice was guilty, shamed, but Morse understood the impulse. And it would have been the best thing for Thursday, to forget and move on. Not to dwell endlessly, fruitlessly as Morse had done. “I sent the children on ahead with their nursemaid. Thank Christ, though I like to think she wouldn’t have… Anyway, she got loose again. Luisa.” He gave a humourless laugh. “It’s my own fault. You think I’d have learned that, whatever new precautions I took each time, she’d always find a way. I should have had her institutionalised. I almost did,” he admitted with a brief glance at Morse, “after I found out she’d hurt you last year. I shouldn’t have let her anywhere near anyone so precious to me. But then you were gone, and I thought – I thought what did it matter anymore?” Morse rubbed at the furrow in his brow, more than familiar with that feeling. “I was so sure that she wouldn’t hurt the children, but perhaps I oughtn’t have been. You were right; I’d grown complacent. Sometimes I’d forget that she wasn’t just mad but that she really wanted to hurt people.”

 

Thursday disappeared into a reverie for a moment, and Morse feared to interrupt him. After a minute he began again. “She got a pistol from a downstairs cabinet. God knows how she knew where it was. She’d seen them used of course, in the war. Maybe Mason taught her how to shoot one, just in case.” He paused again. “She found me in my room, after supper. Didn’t say anything – I barely saw it was her before she shot me.” His hand came up to rest over his right shoulder again, absently patting. “My valet heard the shot. Came in through the door behind her; saw the gun. He hit her over the head with a candlestick. The, uh, the doctor said the blow… well, she passed quickly.”

 

“And you?” Morse asked quietly.

 

“It was a bit touch and go there for a while, lad. And, well, no one knew what to do in my absence. The doctors said that if I – _when I_ – recovered, I’d need a quiet, calm environment for a while. Bright organised packing up the Hall for the moment and a quiet place to stay – they didn’t know how long I’d need.”

 

Morse sat in silence for a while, absorbing all of this.

 

Eventually Thursday stirred again beside him. “You really went back to Thornfield”

 

“Yes,” Morse answered. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

 

The background quiet was broken by the sound of young voices next door, intermingled with subdued older ones.

 

“That’s Sam and Joan back,” Thursday said. The thought seemed to make him sad. He glanced at Morse. “Where were you before you came back?” he asked. “Where have you been?”

 

Morse smiled. “I’ll tell you tomorrow,” he said. “I think we’ve talked enough for today.” Truthfully he thought that Thursday might be tiring, and wanted to speak to Strange and Trewlove about their master’s health; he’d certainly get a more honest picture of it that way. “And I should say hello to the children.”

 

\------------------------

 

He returned on the morrow to be told that Thursday was waiting for him out in the garden. The children greeted him shyly; they’d been a mixture of ecstatic and confused the day before, and he gathered that they hadn’t been told much of anything. Not officially at least, but they were clever and observant, and Morse suspected they had probably picked up a great deal from the servants about both his leaving and the events of a few months previous.

 

Touchingly, both Sam and Joan seemed to believe with childlike faith that now that Morse was here he would fix everything. That their father would instantly recover, and that they would all go back to live at Thornfield within the week. The smile he had directed at them had been a sad one, but he’d promised to stay for a while; as long as he could.

 

He went outside now to find Thursday sitting at a small table, the intricate loops of the white metal of the table and chairs standing out against the bright green of the lawn. The cottage only had a small portion of well-kept garden, being otherwise surrounded by overgrown grass and merging into the surrounding woodland. It was exactly the sort of place Morse liked, and he felt as easy and natural there as though he’d been there for years.

 

“What do you think of it then?” Thursday gestured for Morse to sit down.

 

“You know all too well that I like it.”

 

“Sometimes tastes change.”

 

“Not so fundamental ones, I think. Are you alright to be out here?” Morse eyed Thursday in some concern; he wasn’t sure that, having been so recently injured, it was a good idea for Thursday to be out in this cold.

 

“It’s warm enough,” Thursday said testily, seemingly divining his thoughts. At the sight of something behind Morse he straightened. “Ah, good. I asked Shirley to bring us out some tea.”

 

Not just tea but scones, small and delicate and served with jam, and lemon tarts, sharp and zesty. Shirley had either vastly improved her cooking, Morse thought, or they had gone down into the village for them.

 

He sampled everything, and was glad to see that Thursday had a good appetite. Strange had mentioned to him the day before that the master had been returning his dinner trays mostly uneaten, and that the doctor had said it was important for his recovery to eat well.

 

“You aren’t wearing your sling.”

 

“No, I don’t really need it. It’s supposed to keep me from moving the arm too much on that side.”

 

“Better to wear it then, just in case.”

 

Only after he’d spoken did Morse perceive that Thursday hadn’t worn the sling because he wanted to look his best for Morse, and instantly on the heel of that saw the slight sting in Thursday’s eyes at being so chided.

 

Seeking to soften the blow, he looked the rest of Thursday over.

 

“You’re looking better today. Much less like a wild lion.”

 

The words, which might have been an insult between any other companions, instantly set Thursday at ease.

 

“If that was an insult to my hair, you’d best look to your own. Much longer and we’ll have to take a machete to the wilderness of your fringe every time we want to get a look at your face.”

 

Morse smiled, all restored as it should have been, and they finished their tea in companionable silence.

 

“So,” Thursday drawled a while later. “How have you been keeping? I notice you’re looking very smart.”

 

The comment surprised Morse for a moment, and then he looked down and realised that of course he was wearing Bixby’s clothes. He’d left in what he’d been wearing, and while it wasn’t exactly dinner wear it was a cut above the clothes he’d worn when he’d been at Thornfield.

 

“Oh, they’re a friend’s.”

 

He really ought to get some more suits made for himself, now. He had the money, and he would need them. It had just been so easy to let everything slide while he was staying with Bixby, to live day to day without any thought of what needed to be done.

 

“Must be a good friend,” said Thursday.

 

It took Morse a moment to recall their conversation, and then he coloured involuntarily. Thursday’s eyes were fixed too closely on his face to miss the blush, and the awareness of it only made Morse redden further, as though he’d been caught out in some wrongdoing.

 

He saw Thursday’s curiosity aroused again, saw the slow, considering gaze directed at him.

 

“Where were you, Morse?”

 

“Up north, near a village called Tinterbury. I was staying at a place called Briarthorn House.”

 

Thursday shook his head. “Never heard of it.”

 

“It’s nowhere near as big as Thornfield.”

 

“And you knew someone there?”

 

A moment’s hesitation, because Morse wasn’t sure how much of those initial days he wanted to share with Thursday. Inevitably Thursday would feel guilty, even though Morse’s trials had been almost entirely due to his own errors and poor planning. He didn’t want to lie, however.

 

“No, I didn’t know anyone there beforehand.”

 

Thursday looked askance at him. “How did you come to stay there, then, if the family didn’t invite you?”

 

“Oh, you could say I ran into the owner.”

 

Further contemplation of Morse’s face did not seem to satisfy Thursday. “His clothes, then, are they?”

 

“Yes,” Morse said honestly. “I’d forgotten I was wearing them, or I’d have changed before I left.”

 

Thursday eyed the cut of the suit. “Not an old man then, nor a broad one. Was his wife pleasant?”

 

“He wasn’t married.” It was easy enough, now, to see where Thursday’s questions were tending. And while Morse could have easily reassured him, this new, more animated Thursday was a marked improvement on the despairing one from the day before; Morse thought a little jealousy might do him good.

 

“Not married, hmm? Something wrong with him, then? Ugly?

 

“No. In fact Bixby’s a very handsome man. His face is kind and open, and he has the clearest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

 

Thursday scowled. Morse smirked inwardly.

 

“Probably his manner was too high handed; thought too much of himself, did he?”

 

“He was very kind to me. He took me in when I had nothing, made me welcome. We became fast friends. He even took my sister in too when the rest of my family passed away, and has said we can stay as long as we like.”

 

Thursday processed this information for some minutes. Although the crease in his brow had clearly indicated which parts of Morse’s answer had most irritated him, the first thing he asked was, “Your sister’s alright? What happened to your family?”

 

“I… My step mother passed away after her son – my half-brother – died. Apparently he’d been very sickly since he was born. He was only very young,” Morse said a little sadly. “My father had left a clause in his will that were the boy to die, everything would revert to me upon his wife’s death. So,” Morse drew a breath, “I am independent now. Although I worry about doing the best for Joyce.”

 

“Independent,” murmured Thursday. Then, “And this Bixby fellow – he offered you a home? An odd thing to do for a stranger, though I suppose you’re charming enough when you want to be.” There was a long pause, and then Thursday asked, voice rough, “More than a home?”

 

Morse didn’t answer for a moment, throat tight. He hadn’t anticipated the conversation moving this far in this direction, and found himself oddly unwilling to speak of Bixby’s sad and lonely offer. Unbidden, his mind again queried whether it was possible that Bixby had felt some measure of love for Morse. If Morse had just been too blind to notice.

 

His silence was telling enough. Thursday sighed, breath catching on a cough at the end of it.

 

“You’ll marry him, then.”

 

This had gone on long enough.

 

“No, sir,” Morse said firmly. Thursday huffed in response.

 

“Why not; he’s young, handsome – you said you like him!”

 

“But I do not love him.”

 

Thursday shook his head, as though Morse’s words had no meaning. “You’re young. You should marry.”

 

“I don’t need to get married,” Morse said stubbornly. “I can continue on as I am; I don’t care about that.”

 

“You _should_ care.” Thursday sighed again. “If I were ten years younger I would _make_ you care.”

 

It was tragic to see how the injury had shaken Thursday, especially his confidence. Of course, Morse thought, it might not all be accounted for by the bullet. Some might have been caused by Morse’s leaving; a different kind of wound.

 

He could find no ready reply to make, unwilling to speak his heart further. Presently, the children came out to join them, and Sam played with a shuttlecock whilst Joan picked daisies.

 

\-------------------------

 

Having written to his sister and Bixby that he would stay for some time – Bixby’s the more painful and difficult letter to compose – Morse offered Joyce the choice of staying there or joining him at the inn he was staying in. Selfishly he hoped that she would not come, for although he had come to love her dearly again he was treasuring the time alone with Thursday.

 

He visited the cottage almost every day, though he also took the time to begin to organise his affairs more. He visited the tailor, and was more active in sending letters to Mr Briggs.

 

Spring was easing into summer, the joy of new buds transitioning into warm lazy days outside listening to the bees hum. Morse and Thursday walked a little further each day, often accompanied partway by Sam or Joan, and Morse had also begun spending extra hours there with the children, taking the unofficial duties of tutor once more in order to keep them from running wild.

 

After those first early attempts, Thursday had not further protested his presence or tried to send him away again. Still, there was a wall between them; an unyielding on the side of Thursday and an uncertainty on the side of Morse.

 

Always in their relationship thus far, Thursday had been the pursuer. It had been he who sought Morse out in the library or for walks. He who declared his love and proposed marriage, he who had led the way. Such had only seemed natural at the time, and the dynamic had fitted them both. Now Thursday was withdrawn and unwilling, although clearly not indifferent, and Morse found it hard to conceive how to court a man who was as stubborn as an ox.

 

He didn’t know how to reassure Thursday that they could overcome the events of the past. That Thursday’s supposed infirmity – in reality improving every day – was of no matter to him, that he loved Thursday just as much as he always had. His approach thus far had been stubborn persistence; he would show up every day and prove to Thursday that he meant to keep coming, that Thursday was important to him. Thursday accepted the attention somewhat like a man dying of thirst might welcome the occasional raindrop - without ever thinking that he could have more.

 

If he were entirely honest with himself, Morse hadn’t wanted to hurry things. He too had needed this time to heal, to repair things between them after that terrible day when they had almost been married. Even as his heart ached to see Thursday wilfully blind himself to every small overture Morse made, each fresh day of the two of them spending time together with no other motive or pressure eased the fears he himself cherished a little more. They were restored to themselves, the way they had once been, even if now the silences were longer and Thursday’s sighs more mournful.

 

It was interesting, Morse reflected, to think that when Morse had first known him Thursday’s black moods had been because of Luisa Thursday, the burden of his mad wife chaining and tormenting him. Now those same black moods were because of Morse.

 

“I wonder, sir, that you have not asked me of my plans for the future,” he said one day as they walked out together.

 

It was cloudy, and the muggy air settled around them like a mantle. They turned onto a country lane, the high hedges showing glimpses of bright red raspberries and, nestled in the briars by their feet, small wild strawberries gleaming white and pink.

 

“I fear to think.” Thursday’s tone was dry. “Do you plan to take the society world by storm? Sail the ocean? Tame ferocious wild animals?”

 

Morse directed at him a look which he trusted adequately conveyed that Thursday was enough for any man to have to deal with in one lifetime, and no additional wild animals were required.

 

“I thought I might get married,” he said idly. Thursday walked on beside him, but there was a stillness about him that had not been present a moment ago.

 

“Oh yes?”

 

“Well.” Morse teased the passing long grass, plucking a few blades and rolling them between his fingers. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. That I really ought to marry. You’re right – I don’t want to spend the rest of my life alone.”

 

Thursday was silent, directing a dark glower at the path.

 

“And you once told me that some people marry for companionship rather than love.”

 

He took another two steps before realising that Thursday was no longer beside him. Turning, he found Thursday staring at him intensely, as though trying to see beneath his skin.

 

“You shouldn’t have listened to that,” Thursday said. “You deserve more than that.”

 

Morse gave a half smile, tinged with sadness. “Unfortunately I will have to make do with what God provides.”

 

Silence again from Thursday, but Morse could read the words building inside him. He decided to give another delicate nudge.

 

“And I have so much to be thankful for in my life; I should not expect more.”

 

Thursday huffed, then words seemed to burst out of him without conscious permission. “Yes, yes you should!” There was fire in Thursday’s tone; Morse carefully kept his own expression neutral. “Morse, you deserve someone who _loves_ you!”

 

Birds sang. The hedgerow rustled. Back at the house the children practised their work in the hope of praise when Morse returned. Far away, Joyce looked up from her drawing and thought that perhaps she would write to her brother tomorrow and go and join him, for she missed him.

 

And there in the lane, Morse took a step closer and carefully set his trap.

 

“I have that, I suppose,” he said wistfully. One of Thursday’s fists clenched.

 

“That Bixby fellow? You certainly mention him enough.” Which was untrue; Morse was extremely conscious of mentioning his friend around Thursday, although it was impossible to avoid talk of him entirely. “But you said-“ And here there was an uncertain pause. “You said you didn’t feel that way about him?”

 

And on this topic Morse would not tease. “No,” he said simply. “I don’t.”

 

Thursday took a step closer, narrowing the gap between them. “You deserve someone that you love too, Morse. It will happen, trust me.”

 

“I trust you, sir.” Another step closer, and Morse looked up at Thursday through the spikes of his fringe. “But even so, I’ve heard that such a circumstance is markedly rare. A precious thing.”

 

Thursday was staring at his face, mesmerised. “Precious,” he repeated.

 

“So I cannot, in all modesty, expect to be so fortunate. In fact,” and here a surge of exhilaration and joy went through him, of _triumph_ , “I shall have to resign myself to accepting the next person to ask me.”

 

There was a long, stretched moment of silence. Then-

 

“Why you impudent _minx_!” Thursday breathed admiringly.

 

Morse tried to keep his face innocent, inquiring, but after only a second he could feel the corner of his mouth curl up in a helpless smile.

 

“You shameless hussy.”

 

“If you continue in this vein, sir, I shall be forced to take offence.”

 

Rather than answer, Thursday crowded him up against an obliging tree trunk where it split the hedge.

 

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Thursday asked quietly.

 

“I did try, sir.”

 

Thursday’s eyes dropped to his lips. “You did, at that.” They stood quietly in the lane for a while, staring at each other. It was a moment as intimate and holy as any that Morse had experienced in church, as though the whole world had stopped to watch and wait.

 

“Endeavour,” Thursday said.

 

“Yes, sir?”

 

“Will you marry me?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Thursday let out a short, choked laugh. “Well, thank God for that,” he said, and then seized Morse’s lips in a kiss.

 

\---------------------------

 

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who stuck with me through this and gave me encouragement to keep going - this has been an odd AU even for me but I've ended up strangely attached to it!


End file.
